Jibber Jabber from a Jim Jam Jabberwocky

Non-sequential nonsense from a man with nothing left to lose, except his job.

in video games/ body rice tasting

mighty mites milk magnesium moving maelstroms mama’s misshapen muck maze

Spell Check Reverb Get Hitler, Taylor Swift Can ‘t Shit Fuzz

crank it out,
brazen one eyed god head,
my love tells me to hurry it up,
but I can’t decide if I should add
hall reverb or church reverb,
so many choices,
I miss the old days,
when trolley cars would drive me in circles,
back when a man could punch anyone who resembled Hitler,
now I can’t even fantasize about a ninety year old Taylor Swift with out the fuzz coming to claim my mom as their own,
I would say what the fuck,
but we all now who already dropped a nuclear bomb twice,
I’m lucky if I shit a turnip of gold in a microwaves second,
ah the good old days,
when a nickel cost a dollar and every one was Sci-Fi,
watch it now,
I hear the door knocking,
must be the fuzz again,
looking to wear my old undies
as American Flags.

Crap Gods Prove Capitalism With Cheap Lovers

Lets cut the crap,
our breath smells of capitalism,
cheap love cards and cheaper wine,
all the day time dramas won’t tell you how to die,
so why bother with Baseball and babies,
when you can ride the rails to mental carports,
and soothingly touch every lover whose never been,
besides your age is the difference between
then and now and later,
why waste a perfect opportunity to prove yourself,
to the unjust gods of foul play?

don’t know why, but followers be fleeing in the last ten minutes. so goes life eh?

Thinking About Girls

I think about girls,
mainly naked girls,
hacking violently in elevators,
rib cages ballooning out,
revealing the true nature of torpedo breasts,
I linger on the image of lactation modulation drones,
rippling out of their rotating nipples,
no floors, no stops,
up up up up they go,
where green grass burns the souls of their deity feet,
and intertwines with their hair that can grow as long as a fortnight,
once I saw one in real life,
her face was raw with confusion,
as I through flowers at a bird and told her I loved the way she
called the cops,
also in my dreams,
these naked girls,
show me what makes them different then my male body,
who knew three heads were better than one,
and as the elevator,
now going down,
descends,
their belly buttons blow bubbles,
clear as a nights sky in doors,
I of course suck on these bubbles,
hoping that they will make me a real man,
like the ones I see in disco videos,
those idols of no one,
after that one girl who stepped from sleeping dreams to waking dreams,
called the cops,
we got married,
and the cops killed someone I didn’t know,
so I took it as a wedding present,
and we went on a honey moon to the loony bin,
where they kicked my balls for an ashtray,
and the doctors all had hard on’s as I described how
the fake dream girls naked,
pulsated in blue liquid while screaming the Declaration of Independence,
that last part isn’t true,
but I wanted the doctors to know that I am a real patriot,
although I never carry around a wad of money,
nor do I yell slurs at four legged animals,
but I don’t think they noticed all that,
but those girls do pulsate blue liquid,
and sing (not scream) all four bars of a song that may have been written,
or may have not been written,
but it sounds nice,
and the other day,
one girl told me that all the bees in the universe will sting my torso,
and I said great,
I need a vacation.

drapes pelvic iron grit yellowing litmus test/ enlarged white washed banana