{poignant was the pigeon who pointed me home}

deeper darker receding farther than the larger lager larder left for devils sent installments rented halls but never called in favors from the passing past while leaders sent their letters last and interrupting peters fast was sinful to the wrongfull basket hidden casket written jasmine singed by fire and cooled by drastic measures taken borrowed tactics bent and kneeled on the rats land took at once the older tasks hand returned now the broken jazz band master mastered my mistakes and redistributes faltered cakes and bakes and bakes and bakes and bakes but never takes no never takes just sits and bakes and waits and waits but no one ever picks up his phone its all alone on hook of foam and seas will dry you to the bone and toss you froth you justice knows no bounds of bundles books and blunders crooks and nannys soot filled rudder couldnt plan it newer pans he went to the market and couldnt tan it so he ran it all the way home and while he ran he squealed like a swine until his feet crushed wine and denied his eyes the pleasure of crying and tying together like bows of an archer the mowed sudden lawn chair which folded and bronzed hair and knowingly brought there an internal call where the search light was on but was pointed at downstairs and town there was brown bears who embarked on sound fairs and candied their frowns to the end of the mouse hairs reeled in riches but redeemed their vouchers seemingly south there was no more without and with hints of the linen that still was left out he started to pout and reach out and reach out and out and out and out and out without a doubt he reached out and denied of the spout when his grasp firmly planted the screen was rancid and the screams were dancing with cream of cancer feeling answers all the dancers laced their faces and soon were planted picking powder off their tranced lips sipping cider and carving crayon bits wax coat land was selling tar pits wriggling worth from retread rebid enter the entrance and ender of end this the sacreder words still ringing on his lips tingling and singing as breath made them exit and bury and carry the weight of the lost kiss and wait while he bought it and take what youve got kid its just fate if youve got it and if you still had it its lost to the otters who fought for their father and enter the daughter who didnt belong there and radiant plotter was rented for rotten rebarb redeserted retarded the growth and the far hits were worth what we bought it and return now to our kids who still wish for wishes....

TWENTY-NINE NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{WHYTHEFUCKAMISTILLAWAKE}

i wonder where i wander when i open up my eyes

id rather hide away from light and let my spirit fly

and in that instant i instantly saw that the pencil of my mind hard started to carve and got stuck in a groove and what was it doing? i dont write poems i write words that are moving around words that are proving that words that were using are just worth what were fusing and inducing when we inflict them on each other and in their vicinity they become aware of the space that surrounds them and the words that they stand on and hold up and the ones that close in from all sides and every single word was placed into the block after being chopped from the mind and alligned on a pixel fixed with by a sick soul driven by his only drive to be moving and moving and moving and intertwined in the twine that keeps his head around his mind we look and we find that the hair that grew there was just vine kept for barely the sake of bearing the weight of the words he couldnt carry and he dropped them behind him as he ventured into the woods but who ate them and now couldnt return and he never remembered what he dropped and thats all the words that hes got he just stirs them around in a pot and reuses them a whole hell of a lot a hole in hell was the lot that the coal sells for the plot to take over the road out of nod and we are defiling the crimes by assuming the rhyme and line after line after brother shaking line is the only achievement that was ever designed and the self was fulfilled but the price was a dime and we should have just left it on the street in the first place.

SIX NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{fragmentsofboysthatreallymeannothingtonobodyatallnonotevenme}

i followed in your footsteps

the ones left in the sand

and left behind my own prints

in the places you did stand

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

creeper creeper pumpkin eater took its heart and baked the seeds for long enough to make them crunchy slightly salty slightly pinker throw them at me little horn bees stinging singing while their thorns bleed freeing me from all my organs eating all the pumpkin chortlings

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

the exroom left the exboy in the exworld on his own and etch-a-sketched a neckless freckle trying to make its way home. but wrote it down in lavish poem and scripted screens to film the void

####################

blah blah blah blah

im young

and i have mars

take me take me take me take me

stealing from the candy jars!!!

listen at the doorway listen! hear them hearing us hear them!

tweedle deedle sell the riddle! feedle us a candy thumb!!

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

FIVE NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{like most of my thoughts incomplete....}

PART I???

i set adrift a little ship

i sailed it cross the sea

into the waves my oars i dipped

i floated out to sea

and when i was surrounded by

a feeling wet and blue

i leapt right off my ship from high

and dropped into the blue

as i went down the surface rose

so high above my head

but deeper still my body dove

the light was just ahead

and when i grabbed a hold that light

the world below i saw

was filled with stars and their starlight

the world below i saw

i looked back up and there above

was nothing there to see

so i went down much farther down

to see what i could see

the earth came up it met my feet

the rocks below were cold

the destination not concieved

by the waters deep cold

a field sprung up before my eyes

a sun bloomed in a hurry

the warmth caressed my face and i

thought best to leave to hurry

into the shade i leapt i dashed

a grove it grew for me

protected from the rays i crashed

the leaves they fought for me

TWO NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{twofer dofer whatyer usedter flater stiller sinker chose sir}

tricycle tricycle three circles three sickles three heads of three wheats three barleys three meats three plates for three dinners three lights for one dimmer one cow for six teats and one cone for one treat one street for two feet a hundred battles all defeats one victory ahead in time one desert sands with lines fifteen lines one word one message one hand one fish one plan reddish left tan

remember

observe

return

control

reburn

rehold

rehab

we sold

refab

ricate

describe

relate

too late

soon fate will take its cake that it wont bake and it wont save but it will savor our fading failure and repossess festering funnels of

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Break

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

in thought

in time

but unpublished still

around around the wheel

and grinded finer still

the train jumped the track thinking it could fly but only its smokestacks could ever kiss the sky...

ONE NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{for want of a title the plot was lost}

and into the black stained canvas we proceed for the second time only to have the sheets ripped by the jagged emotions that come from the motions that we wind the key so that we can complete and into the pitfall we rise above ourselves and look down on the places where we have come from and we always return to the places that pain us the most and from our holy mountaintop we drop like birds who have no longer given themselves the desire to flap their wings so we fall and sing as we whistle towards the abyss that our drifting has caused us and be we covered in glitter or gold littered with mud and left in the cold when the pride leaves the lion the lion still sighs and the cat burglars conspire into the deepest of their desires and steal from themselves the only things that they have left and regift it and deepen the pit in which the reaper sits and gleefully gets his musical fits from pulling on the heart strings and blowing through the pipes that were pure until the fires came from within and melted them in to a purely abstract lump of glass that still glistens in its beauty but can no longer function as it was intended and instead it went in to the cold room and condensated tears all over its form for it cuold no longer form the spaces where its eyes had been and that is when the fall began in colors of gold and brown of red and yellow and we all watched as the green died and the trees cried rainbows before they died before they could be reborn once the winter was gone, the winter that had not dawned and the printer of frozen calm would doze the cove into its arms and tinker till it opened small enough to let in light and call out to the ones who stood in stalls behind the doors that banks install and never let out just kept it all in and wanting for skin upon skin wrapped up in or atop of silk or cotton would leave but a trim of the fabric left enough to show you shame as you try to hide behind it and defend your findings before returning to sizing up the world around you while the world inflated its ego behind you and birthed billions of souls who never would find you or touch you or scuff you with coal charred by sinus and still it could blind us with the myriad of triumphs continually denied us and inserted right by us in bodies that would try us and lies that would like us as instead of the egg only shells would crack righteously still so invitingly calmly and brightened me staunchly and so white they seemed like the one prize that we still could not grow to reach and thus i inherited all of the omelets cheese broken and tastes like grease and lays out and still i preach to ears that could never see and yet they still try to read words i could never speak so pouring it out seemed better than spilling these thoughts onto your syringe plunging into decent reaping the coldest winds blowing it back again closing our eyes again rolling on backs again feeling the black come in opening fast to it painting it black again all for the sake of a shake caused by not a wind we see it is just another stained black canvas...

ONE NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{all lights look like cop cars at night}

and so on the eve of the hall surrounded by lovers within and without i need no other than the one curing drought and the only lover wanted by me is in my fist i grasp him and he starts to sweat on my wrist and his grip is cool and his kisses wet and on my tongue he is warm and he burns in my throat and so from fist to lips to burning desire to sharing that fire and reflections always double so youre never alone we hold each other through the night at least i hold him down inside until he leaves me in the morning somewhat less than i was the night before and somewhat changed for the worse, but my breath still smells of him and his kiss still lingers in the back of my throat and i still long to wrap my hand around his neck and bring him back to my lips and always one more kiss will do the trick i swear this will be it but still i want him more and more and the more of him i have the more i want still until ive had my fill and i cant want i cant feel i cant stand and everything spins all because of him! but still i want him! and still i have him! and for now as he stares back at me i am no longer solitary and he completes me and so i consume him as such but he was like wilde or maybe it was i for love was the cause of the others demise and so with a smile i turn off the light and sleep kindly and warmly and cuddling tight the memory of his cool smooth skin and the firmness of his body and the way he made me feel when he was inside of me and he never grows tired of me and he never fights with me he just tickles me pink and makes me think the things im afraid to think and makes you hear the things i dont want you to hear and always is there to lend me an ear and so ill leave it here and go and enjoy him as long as he's near....

TWENTY-NINE OCTOBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{render me your ear or tend to me your fears}

aaliyah wrote me a four page letter and i need a reason why not to respond....im a drift on a pond of sympathy and doubt and if i sink in the drought ill float on the sands of time surfing through the hourglass and down the bottle neck to the bottom of a bottle while the top of the bottle goes down through the bottom of my neck into the top of my liver like a quiver full of arrows shooting straight into me as i turn to the side making a thousand tunnels through my body and naughty are the thoughts inside of me as i project them onto the stars as they project their light into eternity and when we cease to be we still exist as points of light waiting to be seen light years away and fighting tears away we bite our nearest phase and slip into the stream and thus we dream of the eons that we spent growing strong inside of the primordial pool and the prehistorical schools of thought and the ancient trails that we still walk and the naked tails that weve all lost and the forests through which we were stalked and into the tourists who are unable to walk and so we see with our sights and we flee with our fancies and are altered but slightly and back into the trance we slip into the stream and underwater screams arent even heard by fish just the wishes that we kissed into the past before we relapsed into our state of restless rest where we never progress and never regress we simply exist and are dragged into the future by the wake of time and our eyes are open and our hearts are closed and we always know what passes us by in the waking mind and the sinking body submerged by the mud and the ferns and the moss that redistribute our loss into the life force of the microrganisms who migrate into the nitrous orifice and the process of decay unlocks our nutrients and water us down with the subtle taste of nuclear fission and risk it all on the contamination of our intentions disected with dissension and we never bought we rented and content meant settlement and we were too inflated with the dreams of the failures of our elders and we held on too long to the promise of the prince and the novice and the wrench and we were wrenched free from the log with the bench marked with landmarks and the sand larch was ground into saw dust and sent amongst the raw brush and the cooked combs and the rooked bishop who mistook the queen for her majesty and at last he was free and couldnt see the masks who wore him and the fasting had worn him thin enough to slip through those glass bars like air through water and light through stone and the porous pumice would pour us promises for our tommorrow is loaded with quite and noted as right and still wouldnt fight if we pushed it through a window so we grinned low and soon sowed the seeds of our revenge and watered them with the blood of our rage until we poisoned them with our past and cut them down as the strongest foods ground from the harvest and planted into the star dusted scene painted onto the prisons of our skulls on our souls.....

TWENTY-SEVEN OCTOBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{danger will i bob infinite?}

THIS THIS THIS this This This THIS this This this this this This This THIS this THIS this this THIS THIS This this this This this

needed to go away

so we sent it away

so we bent it a way

that was not supposed to be bent

we pretend while be bend that we repent for our sins but the signs that were left behind always sign our souls away for the deeds that we see when we execute them

but that wasnt why in the first place either

so we picked up the lamp and the only thing hampering our actions was the traction that held our backs in place against the wall we tried to fall we cried and bawled and all the while we could still smile at the scene we made so we engraved it on our graves before the day when we needed graves to rest for days beyond the nights without a fight we reached for lights we breached our dimes we needed time to find the line to the door to the floor so we dove down and a dove dove up and we drove with our truck to find the luck that we stuck in the muck when we shielded puck from the ruckus up above us wind swept faster than the drugs hit and we sank slower than the growth did for we bottled all our hopes in our glass hearts dipped in soap so they still shine when theyre open we could hold them but we know that they still slip from all the soap scum and they rip when we know them intimately more than boldly for the written words did hold me over lakes that were pouring into the sky all their holdings so the fishes they did swim it down and down toward the warm earth while they floated ever more so outer outer towards the cold birth of the universe of the one I verse of the only me words of a singularity all my own and formed in letters addressed to a sender who returned after stalking the stars looking for mars he took the scenic route incase there was doubt that still crept in your mind like the creeping insides of your creepy insides all those organs denied of all things just light and the only two portals that enter or exit and this is it YES THIS IS IT of all the things that still exist the absence of continuity through the watertight skin that covers your meat that covers your bones that covers the air that used to exist before egg and sperm were united and divided and multiplied into the bloody lump of flesh that was expelled from the same pleasure den that your father was in months counting ten minus the one still ago and here we go here you know and here you go and here you look forward to the same bleeding bliss and lean in for the kiss and reminisce on the future you get when THIS leads to THIS and THIS still IS IT but you cant resist! and youre still tasting that kiss like a cold frosted drift that stings at your lips when the polar masses miss the coldness that theyd get and so they melt and give all that melted ice a drift and sent it out on air destined for your frozen lips and this is the thanks that they get YES THIS IS IT

STILL

THIS

IS

IT!

TWENTY-FIVE OCTOBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{antithesis anticipation}

while we lie awake at night we see the inside of our eyes but our insight rightly dies when we limit our demise and so we lie away and think and push our minds right to the brink of breaking in or breaking down or stowing away or starting to drown on the boat that leaves the town and heads for cross the wayward seething turning churning motion of your stomach that you stuck with the rituals of your past that you never were encircled by (it wasn't full it had a hole!) and nonetheless there was none left when we left which is why we left in the first place and turned left at the first race starting gate and we started great but on the way we lost our pace and instead of displacing our speed we misplaced our greed and so we gave too much away and we broke ourselves broke from the fire that took out our lights and our ability to pay the way into heaven so now all we have to barter with is our barbers tits which nicely fit under my chin when he grins i grimace and sting it with the spring ships that we unload with flys which all came out of my eyes in beams of light when i opened them wide and as they came alive im sure something must die or the balance would be all high and the weights would take a dive that we could gamble on dice but each game has its price and every man has his vice and mine was that i couldnt help but look into your eyes and feel the pride and the sighs that emmited from your nice eyes your nice lips your nice face and you phased me into the pace that i needed to at least complete the race but then you left me or i left too and in the aftermath we subtracted laughs from frowns and multiplied by the towns and the times that i chimed into the circle that i squared of at the church for the last slice of the pie that the vicar saids nicer then the cherry that i spied when gaga replyed in double and then thrice and the boom part was nice and thats when i died when i opened my eyes for the very first time and i saw all the light that was absent from the room that i imagined had illuminated my tomb and the rhyme which had loomed since my first posts in tune with the rise of balloons would all but soon pop and make this whole mess stop!

SEVENTEEN OCTOBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{Interesting deposits on the side of the lie....}

and so abandoned in infamy the infant left his family and on the way out he locked the door from the inside before crashing through the window that he had forgotten to open but remembered to lock.

and so we join the pile of rocks that was attacked by flesh so soft that was soaked in its crimson filth that turned brown like the ground on which it sat.

and so defiled was the dirt that held the weight that it gave way into the hole that no one had dug but held so snug a bubble of air.

and so released into the ocean of gas was this bubble at last that burst into unrecognition with its emission from the roots that held it firmly in place.

and at last we could grasp the blast of wind which carried into the window in tiny pieces the tinny steeples with grinning people standing on the edge of infinity and dangling by gravity above the bells and the choir.

but dont perspire for the ending wasnt ended and we only rented so the scented candles were part of the deal

and dont look back now because the past has expired and we at last have it entirely encapsuled in time

and as we fade out into the whiteness and the brightness of the depths of the shallows that we wallowed in when he all fell in we all began to understand what direction we were looking for when the arrow pointed us into the sun,

NINE OCTOBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{Inverting the eyes of the road}

silently sitting surrounded by silence

our hero defied his owner of conscious

and into the ocean he would let his conch drift

if only he opened his heart to a prime fist

and so he eloped with his heart on a post

into ropes of his hopes hidden first on his most

treasured possesions and instead of escaping

he bent forward raking the caking of paving

over the last forest that he let grow out of his soiled soil

he wanted to toil but instead was foiled by a lumin and it was soon just sand that he was left surrounded by on his own private island imprisoned by the sirens giving him rising tides and sinking brides that washed up in a pile that killed his smile and left him filing his hold on the past into a brass box polished with silver and pressed with gold but arrested and sold for the market to grow in the name of the tamer of raisers of folds that can wrap and enclose all the things we compose and supposing the rights of the posing were chose? could we still entertain all the rain we expose? and can the lane that we changed still pain us with holes? and pots that sought out the cloud that we plowed in the sky with pride and all the chives that we sprinkled into the wind came back again in the shape of a child shaping his life and squeezing it dry of all the play dough that money can but in the shape of a plane that could push out the sky into the beyond the void that lies above the void that lies above our head that is colored blue by our imagination and our destination that inserts its rations into our booklets without stamps or clamps on our existence. oh no! this is not it! for instead of the pot lick we all stick to the the things we knew best and discarded our best for the things we can rest with comfort in public and faces saved for luck its a satin collar rubbed kiss with a vinyl coated love grip that is rotated at 33 1/3 revolutions per minute while we spin it we sense it has nowhere left to go so we let go and try and hold what we still dont know but at least we know that we know it for show and describe what they told us was bold yes the pleasantly coldness of our hearts as we old ourselves without the aid of a grave to remind us of our past and without a canal to remind us of our birth and our fertile beginings and our ferterlizer ends that our denyed to the cycle by steel we buy we steal our rye and then we die and cannot help but lie inside our house confined on all six sides and all six feet and underneath we moan and cry with mouths not eyes our tears have dried at last but side notes note that we still can find peace with ourselves and our pieces become preachers while peaches plant their seeds and grow into trees that grow peaches that plant their seeds that grow into trees that grow peaches that grow into trees that grow peaches that plant their seeds....

THREE OCTOBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

(WHERETHEFUCKDIDTHERESTOFMYPOSTGO!!!!) {AKA} {The Jumping Off Point}

the pomegranate cried tears of blood into my mouth utterly devoid of the liquor that was promised to me by the bottle so i thought ill go take a walk down into the darkest recess of my

THREE SEPTEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

"The Eric Show Episode Two} [AKA] {Insurrection}

SMASH SMASH SMASH WIN WIN WIN

"This show is now longer profitable."

"This show is my life!"

"Your life is worthless!"

"This show is CANCELED"

"You cant cancel my life!"

"You owe us!"

"I cant pay you!"

"You have a job dont you?"

"This show has put us eight hundred million dollars in debt"

"I just need more time!"

"Times new roman!"

"And the old romans are all dead!"

"So where does that leave you?"

"Like a bunny in the road?"

"Like a balloon ready to burst?"

"Like the forgotten idol that you smashed yourself into trying to run from the pain?"

"Like the piece of shit that you are?"

"Like a dumb kid who doesnt deserve to live?"

"Like a simile beat into the dirt?"

"I can do better! I promise!"

"Its too late now!"

"Youve been sold!"

"You have a new master now"

"But....who...."

"The writers....you should have known it was them alll along"

"They make all the choices."

"We thought you knew this by now..."

"We cant take care of you anymore."

"We dont want you anymore."

"But...."

"Silence!"

"We cease to take responsibility for you."

"The writers make choices now."

"You make mistakes."

"You had your chance."

"Now live with him."

"You fucking piece of shit!"

{the things we}

the things we craved became things we gave less the things that we saved were no more; we caved.
and now are enslaved by the things (that we made) and the words on the page were the hordes on the grave
we poured out our name and detained and refrained till the frain that we rained could not re it once more
and among all the things that we lacked in our life we soon were to find were inside (at night) of ourself all along
and strung with the tongue that keeps throats at bay and takes down the ships that get carried away into stomachs of storms and seas of deceit that fill up on liquids and hope not disease were taken in stride and once more inside the eyes never cried but the mouth did while lie
on the bed on your head just my head will roll
take you away but you stay take my toll
figure it out cried out the light spout and the waterfall wept full of tyranny and woe
while the little white tiger came up beside her and nipped away at her only small toe
whats in the box cried the fox full of locks that he fed himself during his bout of smallpox
and just on the brink of a sinkhole to plot along came a mink for his coat he got shot
and to top it all off at the bottom of worlds these words do create an escape from words

TEN JULY TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{tinkerbell tinkerbell break the spell you cast so well }

long road long night fast car hindsight mistake misplace me in your wake and i will take bonds that you break glasses still fake breathe in deflate
open opt out over done lucks out insane deframe tiger mane next lane cross over merge out sit still still pout take me take out deny your spout
popcorn pop sick noctourne not lit
once upon a time i killed that line
once upon a now is how it happened
once up now down an alley couldnt sadly leave behind the saga i carved in time and time would tell if walls could talk the conversations they'd have would pave miles to be walked by mouths unseen but felt as lips that brushed with fate and candy dipped into the tank of bactal forge reborn in corn and paved with scorn but still the s keeps us from till and till we fill our egos still we kill de ville with rented ills
yes sir
those words are nice
but tell me a story
to get through the night
one about love
about pain
about guilt
and ill read it
deny it
and sell it for quilts become quitters become loaners become gents become loners become quiet become gentile descents become roamers defilled refiled under toner not mint and the spear left in ceaser was unclean if not bent
and still we resist the narrative and fight against the plot that got stuck in the lot of sand mans knot
deny
defend
decrepit
de end

SEVEN JULY TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{ how do i feel today?}

it was on the eve of battle that the soldier saw the sun rising out of darkened hillside blazing raging bringing light onto his face onto the company that he kept onto the company that keeps you till death do you part from your station very stationary sitting waiting for the call to arms and you put a gun on the end of your arm and you sit and you wait and the enemy waits and the man you never met will soon bring your death or you his fighting by moving your finger from a hundred yards away and the struggle that takes place in your mind finds its way out of your eyes and mixes with the blood that you dig and the dirt that you bleed and you mix it into a nice batter and throw it on a griddle and make a pancake of despair and toil and bake to the soil that you came from and you take to when you wake when you wont wake when you bake in your son's heart that stands alert that pumps the dirt that you dug and snugly you slept in its arms in the wound you created on mother earths side like the wound you came out of with your own mothers pride after your father decided that time was ripened and the stipend received was unequivicated by the brightness from your knees as you prayed and you prayed to be off your knees and off the street and undiseased and under heat and heeded for the dough you kneeded and needed for the dough you bring in and bleeding for the ones you need to need you want you bought you lost you lost them want them back but cant and wont become the things you broke and under dressed to come unclothed for fortune smiled at words unwrote and understand the things i spoke when under you my pen was broke is still uninked but prepped to go to war on words that never hope to write themselves without destroying the warring of the one ring from the one phone that kept you from my lone that never was undone that cant win but still won and our fun was undone and one sung for two buns that kept you from my none!

and all the while the sun rose and all the while the earth grew colder from the heat that was sucked out of the wounds that we dug to keep ourselves warm to drown us in the storm but all the while the day grew and the men shrunk and as the world turned we looked at it from outerspace and the world we saw below was insignificant in its beauty and we beheld it and were insignificant as its suitors and we saw it in its entirety and the one man in the one battle that had not been fought between the two countries led by two men controlling millions of people on one planet in one system in one galaxy in one universe in two verses written by one man were all contained by nothing more than flesh pressing plastic triggering electrons slowly degrading through entropy which meant more to me than the seven seas and the four oceans and the one blue planet that made so many glasses of wine which came down to one bag in one box and one extra large glass from that box which was consumed by the same man who contained a universe containing etcetera into one grape and left the rest for the liver to filter out into his piss.

JULY SIX TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

{ugh}

Alex: Pompous, Idiotic, Egocentric, Cunt Eating, Ogre Feces Sucking, Hidious, Insignificant, Tart

Hayley: Brilliant, Euphoric, Artistic, Universally Tantalizing, Idolatrous, Fountain of Undying Love 

THIRTY-JUNE-TWO-THOUSAND-NINE

douchebag DOUCHEBAG!

i hate alex malex alrex spalex talex palex kalex

and hayley rayley rayley  tayley  mayley  nayley  

<3,

eric bo beric a nanan fo feric mi may mo meric ERIC!

{The little boy who grew wings}

In the distant land of not quite here a boy awoke with streaming tears and cried to see the other side of Mount Betweena's snowy slide.
He slept at night, at least he tried. He dimmed the lights and closed his eyes, but always from the great outside, Betweena's peak held untold trials.
The sun came up on him one day and smiled light into his face and as he rose his body ached and burst around he turned and faced his mirror he saw had replaced his arms with wings of gold and lace.
From his room he sprinted fast, to cross the peak for once at last, all his dreams would be surpassed and soon the mountain would be passed.
He climbed the path, became a hill, became a slope, but higher still Betweena's tip expressed its will, to not be crossed by dreams fulfilled. 
He passed the places he had passed on every day that had come before and reached the cliff where he stopped before and spread his wings out ready to soar into the distance, future, and lore!
But as he stooped, preparing to leap, he looked out, down, beyond past the peak, the beyond to him looked  suddenly bleak and no longer did he desire to reach. 
The blizzard came fast, it came from the east, the first thing it froze was the boy and his feet, solidified ice still stuck on the peak, the golden winged boy still ready to leap.

Not in the distance lay honey and milk, wrapped in silver, placed on platters, and covered with silk.
Often to honey would milk go and say, "This silver existence is awfully lame! I want to be covered by gold covered lace! Put an end to all of this dreary gray haze."
To which, each time honey would say "Honey just wait, tomorrow's the day. From over the mountains, we shall be saved."

But back on the mountains our hero, unstuck, unfrozen, unable, to blame it on luck, slowly begins, his wings to retuck and return to the village, down in the mud. 

This is the end, for now, of Part 1

TWENTY-THREE JUNE TWO-THOUSAND-NINE