And now for something completely different...
I decided to pull this from my other blog, mostly for _Beren_ who I know will appreciate a post of this magnitude, this depth and anguishing drama.
So with a little more ado...
I noticed that everything I've written lately is generally serious. So today I feel like a trip down the really silly side.
Sides are sides like dice for a price that's right a long short with waves that crave singular attention with axes of power from role playing games when you're bored like a hole through the brain. Laughter I heard from that hole in my head like an engine that said, all things considered, where is this hole in a board with the dead like a bed of green grass on the other side of the fence? Being greener is better yet not always seen while we speak about thoughts and dreams that we clean up around the house and scream about mice which brings us around back to dice and the price of the sides all said.
Comprehension and retention, schools seek its prevention with all that they have to make kids go elsewhere, but the law says stay and the parents must pray for teachers that care more than a cartoon bear. But this thought smacks of something serious when all I said was silly. I must return to my litany of strange sentences with skewed syntax. How can one run all the sentences together and make no room for more? Can the thoughts be all together while rules breakers play with grammer like playdough, molding and shaping it to their heart's content--most heart's content doesn't contain much, a little blood, a little pumping action, nothing worthwhile, no kung-fu grip, no bendable arms, nothing pliable and interesting like playdough. And playdough doesn't taste good...why would anyone ever want to eat playdough? It looks like cookies that crumble and melt in your mouth from the oven they're hot and gooey and smell good like cookies should.
I wonder if, while writing today, I should format my structures like poems of cards. A House of Poems that falls in the wind or the slightest provocation. It stands tall, like a work of the gods in it's creator's mind, for god he is staring at his creation. the majesty, the wonder, the brilliance, the genius, the sheer insight into human nature...why won't it sell? For selling itself is its real job like a fob on a key that dangles as a weight, that its user might have substance in hand and a lump in their pocket or purse. Persue the purse, the money is there, where, there! why there? because purses from times of old carried money in its various forms, like bricks, or leaded gold, the shells of the sea collected as currency that's current like a river in the water from oceans to lakes where people tan and bake themselves brown, like caramelized sugar when frying a steak by the lake can a barbecue fry?
Can potatoes cry about onions whose layers are revealed like rings in a tree shorn and cut down in its prime meridian thoughts that all jumble together and overlap like blankets somewhat haphazardly thrown on a bed to stay warm. Warm and forelorn I sit with my blankets wrapped round about me like a burrito tortilla, well, a burrito with a big glaring hole that shows off what's inside, I have to see afterall. The cold of the basement is all around me and yet there sits the heater off. Not on, but off. Off is a word that sounds weird. While weird sings wonderful songs of washing, waxing, and savory walnuts wish for yourself that Off would keep bugs, other than mosquitoes away and beyond the biting and hurting soothed by calamine lotion and aloe massaged into hallowed skin...what? SKin isn't hallowed, or hollowed or fallow ringed tallow wax candles that burn without ado though they smell like they should.
Stop you say?
Let us go back to our lives today with our senses intact and your conodrums that lack grammatical usefulness and syntax that actually sounds like English.
This language I write, English it is, though sense, rhyme, and reason might be suspended in willing disbelief that writers may write of what they see with an ear for how words should sound spoken. You hear the reason, the rhyme and the knack for making things up without regard for their black sense of humor that isn't usually grey. You pray me to end, I beseech you to say, how will this tension between you and me play out in our one sided dialogue between us? I might add that the words I write are merely just words, to make sense of the mess might leave you less capable of rhyming, less sensical of reason, and filled with excuses that fly from the keys that I type.
Bring on the clowns, for clowns they are that grin though they frown and frown though they laugh, clowns are bad. Bad clowns. Stay away from the clowns. They drive in a car that never seems empty and yet holds more of them than any bus could ever dream of containing. Clowns are bad they do not obey the laws of the universe created to bring order, their hair is a mess in colors all crazy, a teenager would be proud to have hair that snazzy. For snazzy is good yet clowns are bad, the litany has traveled full circle for them. Once the bringers of joy now the harbingers of universal doom. For Doom was a riot of clowns all gussied up like Marines, they paniced and died with frightful screams. Silly it was was, and silly it is, Mystery Science Theater would do well to mock this flick.
So with a little more ado...
I noticed that everything I've written lately is generally serious. So today I feel like a trip down the really silly side.
Sides are sides like dice for a price that's right a long short with waves that crave singular attention with axes of power from role playing games when you're bored like a hole through the brain. Laughter I heard from that hole in my head like an engine that said, all things considered, where is this hole in a board with the dead like a bed of green grass on the other side of the fence? Being greener is better yet not always seen while we speak about thoughts and dreams that we clean up around the house and scream about mice which brings us around back to dice and the price of the sides all said.
Comprehension and retention, schools seek its prevention with all that they have to make kids go elsewhere, but the law says stay and the parents must pray for teachers that care more than a cartoon bear. But this thought smacks of something serious when all I said was silly. I must return to my litany of strange sentences with skewed syntax. How can one run all the sentences together and make no room for more? Can the thoughts be all together while rules breakers play with grammer like playdough, molding and shaping it to their heart's content--most heart's content doesn't contain much, a little blood, a little pumping action, nothing worthwhile, no kung-fu grip, no bendable arms, nothing pliable and interesting like playdough. And playdough doesn't taste good...why would anyone ever want to eat playdough? It looks like cookies that crumble and melt in your mouth from the oven they're hot and gooey and smell good like cookies should.
I wonder if, while writing today, I should format my structures like poems of cards. A House of Poems that falls in the wind or the slightest provocation. It stands tall, like a work of the gods in it's creator's mind, for god he is staring at his creation. the majesty, the wonder, the brilliance, the genius, the sheer insight into human nature...why won't it sell? For selling itself is its real job like a fob on a key that dangles as a weight, that its user might have substance in hand and a lump in their pocket or purse. Persue the purse, the money is there, where, there! why there? because purses from times of old carried money in its various forms, like bricks, or leaded gold, the shells of the sea collected as currency that's current like a river in the water from oceans to lakes where people tan and bake themselves brown, like caramelized sugar when frying a steak by the lake can a barbecue fry?
Can potatoes cry about onions whose layers are revealed like rings in a tree shorn and cut down in its prime meridian thoughts that all jumble together and overlap like blankets somewhat haphazardly thrown on a bed to stay warm. Warm and forelorn I sit with my blankets wrapped round about me like a burrito tortilla, well, a burrito with a big glaring hole that shows off what's inside, I have to see afterall. The cold of the basement is all around me and yet there sits the heater off. Not on, but off. Off is a word that sounds weird. While weird sings wonderful songs of washing, waxing, and savory walnuts wish for yourself that Off would keep bugs, other than mosquitoes away and beyond the biting and hurting soothed by calamine lotion and aloe massaged into hallowed skin...what? SKin isn't hallowed, or hollowed or fallow ringed tallow wax candles that burn without ado though they smell like they should.
Stop you say?
Let us go back to our lives today with our senses intact and your conodrums that lack grammatical usefulness and syntax that actually sounds like English.
This language I write, English it is, though sense, rhyme, and reason might be suspended in willing disbelief that writers may write of what they see with an ear for how words should sound spoken. You hear the reason, the rhyme and the knack for making things up without regard for their black sense of humor that isn't usually grey. You pray me to end, I beseech you to say, how will this tension between you and me play out in our one sided dialogue between us? I might add that the words I write are merely just words, to make sense of the mess might leave you less capable of rhyming, less sensical of reason, and filled with excuses that fly from the keys that I type.
Bring on the clowns, for clowns they are that grin though they frown and frown though they laugh, clowns are bad. Bad clowns. Stay away from the clowns. They drive in a car that never seems empty and yet holds more of them than any bus could ever dream of containing. Clowns are bad they do not obey the laws of the universe created to bring order, their hair is a mess in colors all crazy, a teenager would be proud to have hair that snazzy. For snazzy is good yet clowns are bad, the litany has traveled full circle for them. Once the bringers of joy now the harbingers of universal doom. For Doom was a riot of clowns all gussied up like Marines, they paniced and died with frightful screams. Silly it was was, and silly it is, Mystery Science Theater would do well to mock this flick.