deepundergroundpoetry.com
Don't Cure Me
Gentle, I mostly list JUST the quips that rhyme.
That's my mental post-script. I'm dropping bombs ALL the time.
Hence prose slips. There are only ON signs.
Mocking purloined phases modern days have locked.
Chalking fresh-coined phrases when I fade and cough.
Stocking anointed plays from way off.
Walking point for Chaos-
Better to the left and forward of Disorder.
Lettered festering tests my morals.
This unfettered cosmic jester is the crest of oral!
I'll never rest on my laurels.
The debt in my chest has more to roll!
Fuck the faded glow of credit!
Fuck a radio edit!
So maybe I took things too far
Played through stings in a million bars.
Hurray! Way to do my part!
Dreaming unrehearsed verbal spar
What I gleam in person? HURDLES this par!
Screams I'm blurting have stopped far off cars.
I'd apologize but that'd be a lie
I ride to drop a brawling farce!
Slide atop falling stars!
Divide all that clings, marred!
Disguises will bring you scars!
I'm LIVE to swing, blast and bomb, charred!
Charred? Fast I'll don a skin like Gwar!
Drop a match on a mastodon in tar!
A man's mind is elevated to the status of the women he associates with.
So my span is relegated to match the winning that shows self-created.
Strange fascination in the range of relating
To multiple anomalies within cults of personality
Culpable animalities will gulp your reality!
Re-sculpt it—malleable social disease
Uncertainty is their alley to roll through with ease.
Then it's curtains. Their ally is your “Hold me, please!”
But while I can blunder through scans
Understand all kinds of diablerie in man?
The acts of those enrapt in being trapped fast?
Knocks the map of my stance
Like Spock getting a lapdance!
The illogic sets me to spin
The project of Dr. Quinn!
That's not Dr. Quinn, medicine woman from 90's TV
That's Dr. Harley Quinn from DC!
Serial Killer Worship
Stockholm syrup
Is what Joker's cock was beholden to drip
Unfolding a dark whim hitlist
Of Arkham's psychiatrist
Dunno why I spy on this
But shit just doesn't fly. Or. Fit. Can't. Move. On.
How did Hitler ever get Eva Braun?
Even the wisest can be misled, damn.
Just look at Oprah and Stedman!
Psychotic blunders unloosing such varied ilk!
It's no wonder I always rhyme about choosing married milfs!
Always... ...such references to seducing, especially of milfs.
All ways of differences.
I'm never reducing any of them. What's best of me spills.
Yeeeah... ...a headful of fireflicks to stay ahead of shit?
Dropped in entirety on some prick?
...It's not just the fastest way to trick
A jealous yuppie slitch into taking a swing and slip
It's letting the discontent who are with it?
Know what else is out there in the mix!
The dichotomy of what flies off from me
Often gives a rise to blurry switched heuristics.
So I flip the script and watch developments unwind.
On the spot filter street sense from grime.
Extract the beat from tension in clenched minds.
Eventually I ghost and spit up to the Divine
Gentle I mostly list JUST the quips that rhyme.
Mental post script: Trimming shit!
Those I kick it with drop bombs all the time
Hence prose slips. There are only ON signs!
That's my mental post-script. I'm dropping bombs ALL the time.
Hence prose slips. There are only ON signs.
Mocking purloined phases modern days have locked.
Chalking fresh-coined phrases when I fade and cough.
Stocking anointed plays from way off.
Walking point for Chaos-
Better to the left and forward of Disorder.
Lettered festering tests my morals.
This unfettered cosmic jester is the crest of oral!
I'll never rest on my laurels.
The debt in my chest has more to roll!
Fuck the faded glow of credit!
Fuck a radio edit!
So maybe I took things too far
Played through stings in a million bars.
Hurray! Way to do my part!
Dreaming unrehearsed verbal spar
What I gleam in person? HURDLES this par!
Screams I'm blurting have stopped far off cars.
I'd apologize but that'd be a lie
I ride to drop a brawling farce!
Slide atop falling stars!
Divide all that clings, marred!
Disguises will bring you scars!
I'm LIVE to swing, blast and bomb, charred!
Charred? Fast I'll don a skin like Gwar!
Drop a match on a mastodon in tar!
A man's mind is elevated to the status of the women he associates with.
So my span is relegated to match the winning that shows self-created.
Strange fascination in the range of relating
To multiple anomalies within cults of personality
Culpable animalities will gulp your reality!
Re-sculpt it—malleable social disease
Uncertainty is their alley to roll through with ease.
Then it's curtains. Their ally is your “Hold me, please!”
But while I can blunder through scans
Understand all kinds of diablerie in man?
The acts of those enrapt in being trapped fast?
Knocks the map of my stance
Like Spock getting a lapdance!
The illogic sets me to spin
The project of Dr. Quinn!
That's not Dr. Quinn, medicine woman from 90's TV
That's Dr. Harley Quinn from DC!
Serial Killer Worship
Stockholm syrup
Is what Joker's cock was beholden to drip
Unfolding a dark whim hitlist
Of Arkham's psychiatrist
Dunno why I spy on this
But shit just doesn't fly. Or. Fit. Can't. Move. On.
How did Hitler ever get Eva Braun?
Even the wisest can be misled, damn.
Just look at Oprah and Stedman!
Psychotic blunders unloosing such varied ilk!
It's no wonder I always rhyme about choosing married milfs!
Always... ...such references to seducing, especially of milfs.
All ways of differences.
I'm never reducing any of them. What's best of me spills.
Yeeeah... ...a headful of fireflicks to stay ahead of shit?
Dropped in entirety on some prick?
...It's not just the fastest way to trick
A jealous yuppie slitch into taking a swing and slip
It's letting the discontent who are with it?
Know what else is out there in the mix!
The dichotomy of what flies off from me
Often gives a rise to blurry switched heuristics.
So I flip the script and watch developments unwind.
On the spot filter street sense from grime.
Extract the beat from tension in clenched minds.
Eventually I ghost and spit up to the Divine
Gentle I mostly list JUST the quips that rhyme.
Mental post script: Trimming shit!
Those I kick it with drop bombs all the time
Hence prose slips. There are only ON signs!
Published 15th May 2014
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