hah. random shit.
jordan, me, & a bunch of others were hanging out last night.
at one point jordan and i had this little writing spree. he wrote a page off the of his head... it was good, although i couldn't read half of what he wrote. he told me to write something in the same way.
pepito and guido would always eat burritos
but only on tuesdays and thursdays - taquitos
or a nice enchilada because they had a lotta
pickles on wednsdays and maybe on mondays
they would suckle the saucy sticky sweet juices
from the lumpy fallic vegetables
and harpoon coons - but not black people
because that would be racist. and ironic.
if they bled in their battles
they'd swig gin and tonic
and smoke fat bowls of chronic
because they were gangsta like that
they'd beat small children with a bat
cuz they were HARDCORE motherfuckers
who dreamt of being truckers
and fucking hitch hikers
and bikers and sometimes even tigers
with condoms made of razor blads and hand grenades...
yeah. so anyway then he was like "I'll write a line, and you gotta fill a page off that line"
alright, jordans line: "2 whiskeys of broken wives"
me:
two whiskeys of broken wives
served chilled on ice.
double malt. extra dry.
somersaulting to the sky
in a waterfall they'd always call
the stoic faced stone drunk
locked in his trunk
a zealous monk
in willful solitude of soul
in the early hour
he knows he has the power
pocket ace's versus pocket two's
he plays their blues
with a winning hand
they don't understand
their rattling can in the curb
is worth less than a terd
to the don juan who cuts their lawn
leaves blown into the wind
down the sidewalk
over the crude chalk
line figure of oblivious children
the games of innocent nature soon mature
into an insidious creature
gripping the glass bottleneck of their dreams...
thats all i wrote.
so yeah. anyway. whatever.
at one point jordan and i had this little writing spree. he wrote a page off the of his head... it was good, although i couldn't read half of what he wrote. he told me to write something in the same way.
pepito and guido would always eat burritos
but only on tuesdays and thursdays - taquitos
or a nice enchilada because they had a lotta
pickles on wednsdays and maybe on mondays
they would suckle the saucy sticky sweet juices
from the lumpy fallic vegetables
and harpoon coons - but not black people
because that would be racist. and ironic.
if they bled in their battles
they'd swig gin and tonic
and smoke fat bowls of chronic
because they were gangsta like that
they'd beat small children with a bat
cuz they were HARDCORE motherfuckers
who dreamt of being truckers
and fucking hitch hikers
and bikers and sometimes even tigers
with condoms made of razor blads and hand grenades...
yeah. so anyway then he was like "I'll write a line, and you gotta fill a page off that line"
alright, jordans line: "2 whiskeys of broken wives"
me:
two whiskeys of broken wives
served chilled on ice.
double malt. extra dry.
somersaulting to the sky
in a waterfall they'd always call
the stoic faced stone drunk
locked in his trunk
a zealous monk
in willful solitude of soul
in the early hour
he knows he has the power
pocket ace's versus pocket two's
he plays their blues
with a winning hand
they don't understand
their rattling can in the curb
is worth less than a terd
to the don juan who cuts their lawn
leaves blown into the wind
down the sidewalk
over the crude chalk
line figure of oblivious children
the games of innocent nature soon mature
into an insidious creature
gripping the glass bottleneck of their dreams...
thats all i wrote.
so yeah. anyway. whatever.