As the king does sit upon my throne,
Though not a King myself as I,
Still cherished among men and many
As you seek truth to bear, my King
And not your but also yours,
Does partake thy bethrotjen nature,
To swallow whole a seed a assumption as
The rather and tide to bond,
And to thine, the faring way
The truth does seek you, too
And gained wisdom by time,
None does have, but thyself.
To know,node bearing fruit are I
And bearing truth shall you,
A lesson gathered, as you as one
And I as other— under the assumption of
God, this is a sausage feat in here.
Let's get some women in this bitch.
They just don't speak much—
Especially in this series
A truce for the truth I seek.
A wage for the war I've bargeouned.
I tell you all that I know,
Have we parted but some to forge
A shadow in the summer's night where autumn azure sun does beem,
The wicked truth you lie to pardon
Stands in its own awakening;
Shallow moon tide's at dawn,
And so, you kind folk of Kingdom there
The truth is said as this,
The love was born in ritual,
For the song to have been sung as such.
For never better none has taken guilt in wavering the time has come;
Never now but always forward
And never there but always bound,
As haunted and as haunting no doubt,
But to gain is this, my trust
And in your waiver— the vow
My honor, and sacntity so.
Not of this realm, but others seek.
And in this realm and others so
The truth of fruit shall parish,
Never to have grown from seed,
In midnight summer's truth,
[TITUS with a heavy heart exits the corridor.]
The Strine Force Five assembles in the basement before supper is called
SETH, a peckish boy, almost goilish looking, maybe 11 or so steals cookies from OLIVER, who might be about 9, who speaks with a heavy and very proper English accent—
Stop stealing my biscuits!
Why bring them if you're not going to share?
I did share. You lot had the box!
You know these are cookies, right?
They're my special biscuits.
UPSTAIRS, MOM and DAD, very much the classic stereotypical suburban and American everywoman and Everyman prepare for supper. DAD, who resembles almost too much the LATE JOHNNY CARSON, peers into his newspaper conspicuously—
LATER, at the DINNER TABLE.
Boys, Say hello to your uncle Steve.
[The man heavily resembles Steve Allen]
I don't like uncle Steve…
BIG JIMMY elbows him. Hard.
BIG JIMMY smacks him upside the head, however without harming his very neatly done swooping hair.
(also grumbling, almost mimicking)
BIG JIMMY shoves LIL JIMMY into his seat
Also meanwhile, in another alternate dimension.
So you're real name is JIMMY WANG.
Your actual name is actually
Did you have a middle name.
[he grabs the birth certificate from Jimmy's grip]
Oh, that's interesting, Jimmy and not James, how endearing—let's see—
[nearly in tears, JIMMY runs to sulk into the washroom while his buddies continue making dick jokes; it's almost to much to bear—having learned so much about his true identity, most recently, that he was adopted at a very young age from a very nice Asian couple.]
(Reading newspaper, breaking fourth wall)
I told you he was Asian bro.
SUDDENLY, Deadpool crashes through the door.
SUNNI BLU tosses the super hot model in their lap across the room.
—what was your name again?
[he insinuates his crotch]
[A very pretty lesbian appears out of nowhere.]
DICK VAN DYKE also appears out of nowhere.
I can hear you, you know.
Woah! How old are you, dude?
They said the gig was till 3.
[DICK VAN DYKE turns to leave.]
sweet yellow pinapple and coconut curry over brown rice and lentils sounded like a good Christmas Eve In—
“Wait? It is Christmas Eve, isn't it?”
I checked the date and time as my phone connected to the wifi.
“Yep.” I concurred, slurping the last of the curry broth from my dinner bowl— my second, but most likely out of three. I'd made enough to last however two or three days, and though I had been offline for throught most of now what seemed the entire month, letting my bills lapse over to make nonexistent room in the budget for the peloton, which seemed fair, considering how small I was getting, even cooking and eating myself into the non complacent waking coma that was the vivid and apt focus needed to create music for hours on end—something I had never quite done before in a certain way, and it seemed as though working in this fashion seemed somehow to have moved me solidly forward and sideways through time a bit—some sort of diagonal. I had rested the Sabbath and in the midst of it fallen behind by two days, but making up for it and catching up speed, I had submitted two releases in the early morning on the same day, now coming to an end—and somewhere in the middle, waking up after the fact to a fresh blanket of snow and the whimsy that came with it. A white Christmas afterall, perhaps, if it didn't melt by the following morning, which, judging by the fact that the coffee in the tumbler was still piping hot and not just like warm—I.e., fresh—that I might the same be up early into Christmas morning, also the first day of Hanukkah, and although I had forgone getting a menorah, after the attempt to pick up a free one I had found online over the summer in search of a cat, it didn't seem worth the cost to buy one; I was saving for too many things at once, which meant also nothing, but I couldn't be happier to spend the holidays alone and quietly— I couldn't be with the one person I wanted most, anyway, and so being alone was the next best thing. I almost wished I had've found the cat by now, but it was probably better that I was for the most part, unanchored, and could travel at will if needed. I thought to submit some of my new songs as demos to labels or into contests to try to find a job, but either way I knew in the moment that I would be playing live again by spring, even if it was just barmitsvahe and weddings, the latter of which I actually hoped to avoid, besides the Jewish ones—and my affinity for Jews had become remarkably trademark; as if I had some sort of reason to like them more over time, but I hadn't one—not that I actually knew of, anyway.
I had forgotten why I had been checking my email incessantly anyway, besides the new sound packs that seemed to have been magically pouring in, which i became excited to use when the right time struck to dive back into aboleton, learning in broad lessons in how there was a grace period between finishing and submitting tracks and starting again, and being careful not to sink into monotony—until I finally remembered, checking my email—that I had been nervous about samples from one of the latest releases clearing—however—a miracle indeed, it had been approved, and the message sit atop a pile of nonsense in the rest of my email with the news that it had been delivered to stores— I had put out about 15 singles since the beginning of the month and had a week's time more in my subscription to the distribution service—and I planned not to waste any time before my account being terminated— not that eventually I wouldn't renew the subscription, however— it would be at least a few months and probably into the early spring. I had, after all, purchased the subscription around the same time a year sooner, which allowed me to purchase the service at half price— a luxury which no doubt would end before my next payday, and after the payment for my Peloton—however—
I thoroughly enjoyed keeping my energy well to myself, and it seemed I was recovering well from having been followed to the gym and harassed, however, now the annoyance was— my neighbor wouldn't leave me alone. She was high maintenance, full of drama, probably a little bit toxic—
And now, she wanted to be friends.
I thought it best to stay on her good side, and had politely declined the invitation to Christmas at her apartment with her mother, but knew that until one of us moved, I would have to safely navigate the trenches of neighborly rapport; though something told me to be careful with the valitile fragility of the entire thing, it seemed almost the same with anyone, even old friends, that trust itself was rare to have in others, and so my holiday wishes had been simple and humble in truth; it had snowed, and I was alone, and making music— the home gym set-up, complete with yoga mat, Peleton and pink treadmill were simply a bonus.
—Tales of a Superstar DJ.
Seven wooky dudes stand candy coated in the VIP section at a major music festival.
And one finger to the socket
Sock puppet watching porn of Elmer Fudd
god chose the number one,
Back of the collections call
The corner, a sharp deposit
For figure, full figured dolphins
And the other is, of course
(It's good curry, though.)
I'm sure I won't bring it up
I've got some kind of trauma
In the wallet full of cards I dropped
(Still don't know what Ivermectin is.)
Refuse to google such an awkward juncture.
Uncle Parr is at the door.
[The Man resembles the late Jack Parr.]
Here comes old wheats his name,
The cousin, tagging alongside big brother
A Jon with no H, the cousin—
[A strange looking boy resembling JON STEWART enters alongside his cousin, an even stranger looking whom resembles DAVID LETTERMAN— between the two of them, they are the oldest of the boys, about high school aged—dressed fashionably but odd and both dawning suspenders with their strange and quite ill fitting pants.
This is weird. What is this—what is this?
Why does this exist at all?
What are you doing this for?
Skipping suicide another night?
Beats the knife in my back.
—because, I just don't care anymore.
In an ‘imaginary‘ parallel dimension, the world is torn when the workforce—not just of one Union or another, but the workforce of the entire country goes on strike as a protest against high costs of living in demand of a living wage; a nightly entertainment program is interrupted with a news broadcast which declares a state of emergency—the economy itself on the verge of collapse.
Oh. That's what I'm writing.
You know, they're gonna kill me for this.
—that's why you need therapy!
Look, all I want to do is make dance music.
When big brother is watching,
And long gone is Jack Parr,
It's all done and divorced,
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