To The Victor Go The Spoils

As you can see, I’m back online. The titles almost had to run this way. I am fine with doing this. It was 5:15. The logic here runs the statement you make, to the end, amen beginning, with studied aversion to appearing ridiculous, as if calligraphy leads letters with you up to complete, and so words and ideas. A person is a reference to being correct to defend against it. I knew today about Gandolfini (JG). I smoke the weed. I just searched this blog for my last title’s references. I chose the post, “The Closing Chapter of My Life.” That was in the spirit of not replacing my bed. Today, I have help with the crib. My landlady moved underneath me and hears every sproinging spring. I checked, and the farce that I am living, well, people kick up dust. That is, they plot like archenemies.

You can’t see this, being spiritual. My kung fu roommate Danny, good thing grabbed his clothes out of the busted washer. He didn’t think to do the least thing, couldn’t be arsed to prevent all my clothes being wet, Bruce Springsteen in my ears going, “I wake up at night with my sheets soakin’ wet.” I was laundering at night, sure. Hey, “Mr. Lennon?” — BS: The “more than”, part is when the reader reasons out using time lines, e.g. where I had to be. I am in A.M. I’ve seen last night’s news last, and after that is the time on my mind. But, the impression leaves us with but one conclusion about the imagery, its conclusion, and brains. Chi, hello Greek letter. My quotation above is a following-up, ie reversed, ie not to put too fine a point on this, but people do not want to sign their own death warrant. The word, “own”, however… ” …a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull.” Right, and Governor Christy is even fatter. Shut the fuck up permanently, you tub of lard. Sell us a bag of broken glass and show us what your vena cava is pumping when youse climb stairs and that.

Get skinny; I will if they is making Mighty Mouse and Rabbit speed.
I will code you at the salad bars. When you fumble under the sneeze guard, think of me kissing you through the guard. I know the carb diet. I think of a push, my helicopter beanie, and what time, a town without pity, and institutional free speech, caaaa-ooo-an, do.

Because of cycles, word #411, I’m not; I’m not doing something to the FBI. I am unsure about unprotected speech. I have to wing it; even though my friend faces 105 years for his speech, i. I’ve been here — fifth year. Cancer: fourth year. All the $1 and up stuff is breaking down, ii. Feinstein, who I graced and whom invited me into her home (if she thinks I am able to tolerate an “anti-proliferation” attack on knowledge already present in my head she sovereign did so, that is, as they foment, use and destruct Others). Americans are targets and neither half complain. Just look at the full-on cowlike numb faces of TWENTY sets of parents different from me, all their toddlers blown away in utter contempt. I enjoy this immensely. Make me shut up. I was put in a mental institution here in California, and it took another five years to make a movie condemning it, 1975’s one tiny shout-out, out of a lifetime of living around mentally slothful people joined together sucking truth in a gallery of unionized whores.

So what works? Against three years of pretrial detention, or against extinction, Violet and Virginia (Violation, Violence, Revenge), they meet over here. It’s on the clock.

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3 Responses to “To The Victor Go The Spoils”

  1. sbillinghurst Says:

    Tees, used by older Americans, provide the bruising — not mount olives, but — pills. My nice white, and tan, pills. Did I waste three weeks to beat a new ten-millisecond computer? I have towers. Things falled on Nicholas. New computers, I bet they de-autocorrect and Avast-icize each. The sense of the sacrosanct as more the was informs Belushi grade. Bandolfini came off the sprocket like thirty years behind Slick. That’s right, Baez and Slick LIMP, but Slick’s a thick babe. Paid rent, want SEB body to love. Like blood, red, in an artery: what chi chicane through? Her mortar bandwidth, none. I mean the cock jokes. I was preparing to seat visitors to the 1966 beginning of Free Speech. I’m a candle holder, not Candlestick, warders -oink- on the windswept bay, Lenore Kandel. Eventually, Sadie Seagram ate up all others and the miracle face braned is some beer mug. If you like mugs, by the way, I steal them. If you write a letter, heft a beer mug pourer. What do they say: I’m an Angel, I need a drink, I’ll have a ..round, shot,…PITCHER. My mugs draw better flying across the room in a cartoon. Poor her face … super play ball ficial … Yeeeaaaaaahh, woke up, poured my head its sugar face, duckling. I rope-a-crow.
    People are pretty mysterious about how they know things. I mean, regards the time. I’m not looking. I guess 7:10. I was 11 in 1963.
    I never repeated memories as narration, see? Yeah, they (better thoughts) are shorter, persisting even within long, drawn-out lies. But I’m good, don’t want bashing. Addicted to quiet, the dead foam mind works you back here at five o’clock. I have a five o’clock shadow, totally homo-free (but you are not. I am climbing you. I like the asexual), staying on, might I remind you, of your five o’clock world, and your five role murdering Crips.

  2. sbillinghurst Says:

    Hellion means you never go see Kid Rock.

  3. sbillinghurst Says:

    The union idea (pecuniary), is about political incorrectness persisting, whether clean or immoral comports with credibility and how they operate legitimacy. But, when you combine self-preservations boze corpus with incorporate, a hot theory imputes another troubling symbiotic biography. Mortified is mentally killed. Whilst averse, men in particular are fastidious, in practice (Rs) overly so, whether from drunkenness, native mental inferiority, or just beta being. We kill all backsliders, have for two centuries. Come back, five, and hair played your is. They can’t drop what they nearly aren’t into what you are, Glenn, for another beat. Hurdle the hetero defiding D.D. dide, ending with a dearth. If ads did not pop up… we … she … purpose … clue n-no, too much good motive to recall intelligence … guyed … rend … sheeted ghosts … topper … can’t … work it out … it didn’t get shorter through the end of this comment to look for the hyperbola in my notes. Recall, nothing’s old. We/she, a dangerous moog, as a head comes face, I’m justos — face, we (GG) g-get in, do the job, GTFO, and famer-stretch, Buddha-budang and retract with scented-square Emo Hell of out the front pleat; owe, remember? Form I need not go there, for not every thing symbolizes. They all symbolize. If that is all. I’m dubious. If that number is all it can do, my God what another will with next. Even however trick all is, percent succumbed. Ower the front pleat you zip up. Weev had it first.

    Why to keep that attitude? I don’t, I swear. The practice of art of memory calls a word a surrender. No-green onions excepted-can verbalize little-b beantown instrumental. And by the way, this month, x is a to z for a month. KFYFK and carry it. Learn to masturbate. One blog, one over me, to one; _:1.

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