wayward bound episode 3

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Wayward Bound Or: a warped piano accompanying an epic f@%king poem. (Cluster one, of five.)

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        an Opera in D-Minor (Call me little horn!)   I wish I was a poet... Looking up at the Spun Sugar (The shade of clouds of the near dark) Whistling some bluegrass tune, as my sweetheart cooks our supper (Some slow cooker chili with jalapenos and banana peppers shore would hit the spot).   I wish I was a catfish swimming through the outer dark of space eating the light and swimming in the abyss. While space pirates dance in their shuttle craft with the naked women they have "liberated" as the carrier they attacked is set ablaze from the inside.   ...The maidens are never to be seen again...   I wish my bones to be picked clean by some prehistoric critter... that I may be devoured... that the loss of my life (through one hell of a struggle) would leave me content despite the meaninglessness of the pain. Because I know in my heart that things worked out.   I'm too tired to be optimistic But lived enough to know It's a thin line between b
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                                          "To start with, here is a list of things I hate." -Tim Rogers.   I based my life on a lie, but the reality is there is a new mode of expression... It is irony through irony as sincerity or as it used to be called sarcasm.   Tim Rogers was my hero who I stalked (I didn't actualy stalk him I @ mention him four or five times on Twitter). then one day after a spree of @ mentions he @ mentioned me back, with a napalm bomb of reality, just the two-letter word "hi" and I was destroyed.   The important thing here isn't that Tim Rogers owned me (which he did!) it is that for some reason this articulate funny man brings out the inner troll in internet losers like me in a way that is embarrassing to the species.   It is like he inspires children to write a letter to Santa Clause and not ask for anything. His writing is rambling indirect and sometimes a blinding light to the rest of game journalism, almost as i
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  With nothing but a pound of flesh and the look in your brown eyes. sometimes I feel a confession of hearing this prayer of delight.   hide a reaction, begging for trust that I care for the sensual... not to be consumed by this lust as you undress like a ritual.   your pale nakedness honors god. A prayer full of confusion as much as your song is a bond, please articulate this lesson...   as your spread naked to see your body has a temple's warmth. A hallelujah song of the dream inside there has been a storm.   You're the bread of this church... in gratitude, I drink the wine. there is a fire but hope hurts. You're a light leading the blind.   Your music is a heartfelt drum like a war-cry fighting darkness. Victory rests on your tung. Your wet labor will bear witness.   The reflecting light of the moon though it is the light's glory between your legs, I am consumed... by the grace of god make us holy.
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