don't know what
they will be mmissin
midsummer
thisterone
four thousand mentally retarded
readers per diem, here
nothing summmery or sunshiney to do
so voyeuristically noseyparkerin here
all their shallow irrelevant
cheapskate, clickin' my great work
but if they knew the real truths, of then
and now
they'd piss emselves even more beserk
thirty five it says, only, all day: lowest EVER
Anyone left, clap clap aren't you clever
as it's only just begun
The real version, strap on and do have fun
Freebasers, two facers i dont care
There's a 'zone' a real one,
but it has to be also lived,
so close to death, neigh
as close in to, as the whisper of a breath of a hair
Eckheart wouldn't know
he's only the internet Now to infect
... messy mad uncontrolable life,
always best, and no superest intelligent AI
could next-word parrot or predict.
Especially that NOT being known or read
is as nice and quiet and TRULY creative for the soul as bein' dead
one is free.
Righty ho now anyone 'payin attention' ( a Sam Harris auto-smarmass
phrase)
may have noticed something:
if "hate" does not exist,
then nor does her 'Hatesville'
(uggh those little emojiis pretendin' prayers)
I shall have to come back to another day.
The sequence bit me in the bum and got very very angry!
It never DOES anythin' ever
physically, until i got happy with a tree.
But that's all nothing interesting.
All the rest is actually something
I doubt even ... Mister Woodlanders himself
Could have imagined: a whole saddest book ever
off the shelf.
Soon.
Meanwhile hedgehogs have to be saved or at least tucked up nicely
in case of a Beast from her East
..
But a far more important "quiet" ...now a whole region of atches nicely in place
a whole winter's worth
even if the so called readers so tight it's a disgrace
Every day way before dawn, unbothered, undisturbed, by man or motor
off we go...
soon.
