Journal journalism journalist
Karma's

Your a Messiah complex without a headline

The penny sales where rupi?

Rupi in los Angeles we named you Megan Henderson

We of the new York donated believers to Ktla concert's



Now and then
Gets to being
Now I didn't get that
Then that time come to get

Lost in subways
Reading your move
Hey now
He's the one
List full of you

Mix

She gives me more
Go head go head

I gotta leave
You have the need
When mourning wants
You have the need

Shoulders crying
Slip sliding
Dreams indeed

Kendall, please
When I'm at work

Heels good morning
I'm out to read
Heels good morning

The devil touch my china ?

Down on Main st?
At Ventura broadweighs
In at sound of music as nihilism?

Peculiar emnity

Quaint

Her score is without doubt

Superb

Anderson's mom got travesty dynamites working on his pilgrimage at the original o tell rooms
Unfinish that business
54 super stereo children layer claim to the reluctant speaker tube truths
Super sister shine all tubes

Release these needs
Ordelies

searching remains
this old brain turns to silence today
from nights to days to nights
still no change
when will the pain of being the same ever do a ******* thing

I love rambling cacophonies of abstraction words dripping lust plush and velvety sugared in pipe tobacco like Jack Rubys old joint no symbols to trip the flow odd bits of alliteration skipping stones slowly along the rails in legion divergent trains of thought but I am no McCarthy probing the inner turmoil of the Southern mind maybe riding I will tap out a poem about a poet writing poetry God I hate that **** or maybe something referencing my username the song Bad Company off the album Bad Company by the band Bad Company thrice I have called thy name and thus I do bind thee oh well you are what you eat I suppose to which I would usually respond ***** a bit crass maybe pretty ******* too hah **** it its just wordsandshit WordsandotherTrash

For the general good of life, and that more abundantly, you must pay attention to little things.
Unseen things.
Time compression is essential for even the briefest of glimpses, mere blinks,

A wink,
and what threatened Nihilation of the finest realities imagined so far, is nothing.

****. Again.
"there are universes
where eons go by in the blink of an eye". Somebody said.

Bubbling universes each able to open itself to the first level bubble, your bubble with everything you know in there with you. And, today, me.

"indisputable fact, there was / is a first bubble, light fills it to the brim
and what happens there touches
all, and I am,
in a word, part of that
First bubble kingdom"

Every desire of your heart he delights in.
There is such a universe, before you think or ask,
and you are sort of quantum bonded to your heart's desires, y'know,
hearts and minds, body and soul, 2 different systems.
Entangled.
Breathe.
You know.
Soulish desires disciplined in disciples
found blood washed hearts,
unlimited.
Extrapolate this. How much blood is in the ocean now?

More than you can think or ask.
You believe the first thinker thought you would
appreciate a path to each and all of your heart's desires, one path,
or you never find the way, no matter how you look. ?

Ya gotta beli've it to see it
Be li've
Ya gotta wan'it


Jah praise first bubble knocking
you b just one wall away
step into alpha thought and proceed to the omega thought,
Copy?
Respond.
This is the narrow way.
The old way, where good is. You found it, walk it.

It's in beta, so you can fail. Life ain't fair, its jest
okeh, ever how we lie and say this jest
cain't real-ish-tic
be,  don't make me no nevahmind.

life and light, those two team up and kick ***,
evil gets all turned around, ****** if it don't. then

The peacemakers rest, the meek inherit the earth
and everything goes back to normal.

Moral: believe no lie is of, in, by or for actual truth,
you know. Take it as a test.

Like changing your own air filter, in the realm of ideas,
you change your error filter when ever it

seems you jest cain't breathe. You can change that
****** error filter and hit any dusty trail

that seems right, as far as I can tell.

Calls a number, switches channels in seconds.
Wished to have pleasures, skin to skin, longed for touch.
Hits and punches. Down the line, it's actions can cross the lines.
I didn't want to do them.
Nothing I do is my own really.
Where it's either my fleshy, hairy minds and crowns, or it's the light and God's presence that guids my hand.
My navigation is haywire, vision obscene and covered with blinds.

I don't want to be in this body.
Nope not because of it's shape not size.
Not because I am chiseled or not.
Not fat nor skinny. No, not because of that.
I just hate the decisions it makes, its ideas it has, the vision it has, makes. Me. Sick.