April 16, 2009 at 6:25 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 9 Comments
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by Herbie Hancock, tag writing with soundtrack, the sheerest of self indulgences, barely more than grey smoke curling around her hips and manifest in a blaze of red across a spring valley, the rushing of water and inevitable tumbling fishyfish til reaching land we discover Canteloupe Island herbiehancockstyle, insert missing link haha.

What purpose is there in bald description, or vast arrays of explication splashed across the night sky, it must be an arrangement by which we can chart some …
Ari! get back here son. There’ll be no chasing of horses for you,

simple fairy tale samba

May 7, 2008 at 7:54 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 15 Comments
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(subtitle (outrageous, who subtitles anything these days):

    Hunger Ocassionally Makes Fools Of Us All, Tigger

It is as if the world contains a soft buzz and then the sudden and spontaneous joy of you unfolding grander than a grand piano, an entire orchestra playing the sweetest chord the flute purring the perfect line of melody over your hips and through the scent of your hair and in that single curve every ideal of beauty embodied) a still warm and alive creature whitch responds to touch in the tiniest detaillliteral electricity beneath your glowing skin and hairs rise and come alive and tickle and twitches his whiskers, hmm something alive this way comes through the dark jungle skipping red and joyous in her youth and unexpended energy, i shall become no more than a helpless old crone in a single bed and i will only bear my fangs after it has become impossible for her to resist and she offers me her throat,

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