And fools, and fools, and fools
And tools and tools, and tools
And palms of pools D'hors
Pools and Pools and Pools
Now, for us, what's at stake has come upon us
For whether which now or ever ties have made for us to burn;
Ne'er mistake there lust for listens and of ponders,
Waterfalls of love and feathers, wanders
Ties to honor stars and fore of fathers
Almost lost it, there, I–
Almost gathered, therefore.
Of tied knots and of stomach's wrench
To nourish shadows as remains her honor,
and again wakes as has but not
Set aside not as slabs of stone
as the glow of what I once did not know,
Again i wait and ne'er did I come,
but forth I woke, and also thought
Not one but worlds of color,
And there i know, to heart the seas I parted
Not shallow or in shallows waking, red as scarlet blood
but mauve, and then, the coping stays of which I gathered here has
Agape and aching, wet with pride and courage
Our ENSEMBLE awakens slowly in the void of light; an all white space seemingly endless and drenched in blinding light; slowly awakening as if upon a cloud, and yet, washed in the drenched brightness of an all white world–familiar and together, but also new; The uniformity of all white attire and the simplicity of symmetry–all alike but of many and also one.
I promise there's pancakes;
I promise there's porridge
I primise there's light at the end of the tunnel
(the end of the night and beginning of brunch)
Made of all green pastures
My maples for all of us, cornbread
Screams from the underworld
(Calling! They're calling)
And trees of the very best kind;
What a prosperous product
(For four eyes, not one on my forehead)
That all this goes over my–
That nothing goes over his–
–no one throws that high!
And the worst has to come because
Nobody's turning this off;
And nothing less short than a–
They're all going wrong with us.
the laugh from the chopsticks,
The room full of products
The hour comes running upon us,
I don't disagree with you. However–
A MAN hangs by nothing but seemingly a very tightly buckled pair of restraints, above his head–the source of the object from which he hangs unknown, he appears to almost float, in fact, in quite the sufferable struggle.
Holy fuck, guy. You're still up here?
The VOICE comes from above but is yet unseen, it appears as though two very tidy clean white tennis shoes appear to be holding the straps of these restraints in place.
No lunchables, or gushers
Now guess which long road you're on
(guess which long road you're on)
Guess which long road you're aaaaahhhhhh–
Finally, two acts past intermission,
The troll under the bridge has put his cancer in remission
The redactions have acted as class-action warfare,
McDonalds has sponsored us,
No. I'm not endorsing this.
Because! It's killing people!
He–'s uh–joking. Actors! Improvising! Hush.
Speaking of left and right–
You know who our sponsors are, right?
Do you know who owns this brand and company?
Well, do your research. Immediately.
Serious as a heart attack.
Nuhhhhh–fuck you, you fucking fuck!
Aren't there five of you guys?
One, two, three *hiccups* four–
I figured out nothing. I'm drunk. I
just know the difference–s between Five and One
Well can't we just do it with us.
Because. the singularity has to be in the exact circumstance when this lightning strikes as the first one was.
It's not–*hiccups*--umpossible.
But not right now! Because i'm like a 60 year old guy!
I don't know! How old were you before!?
I'm your brother! You don't know how old I am!?
You're not my brother now, so maybe–I don't know–you never were!
[The boys fight amongst eachother]
What in the fuck did I write.
ENTER THE MULTIVERSE: L E G E N D S
THen is must not have been that great.
*even more exaggerated gasp*
[The Festival Project ™ ]
The Aliens Are On A Pirate Ship, There's Still No Sign of [Redacted] and that's what this beat is called. -U.
Idk it just seems like a ship sinking in very slow motion.
[A pirate ship full of aliens is sinking in very slow motion in a thunderous maelstrom.]
JIMMY KIMMEL is pacing relentlessly; he is driving the other hosts up a wall.
WHAT! I'M HUNGRY AND I WANT PANTS!
CRAIG FURGUSON has had enough.
You know what! Fine! I'll make you some fucking pants if you just–shut UP!
CRAIG FURGUSON assembles some very eclectic pants from the drapery inside the mansion; this of course reveals the windows to be boarded up in a highly distinct bunker-like maximum security prison-ish fashion, but THE HOSTS at the very least now have makeshift pants; which are startlingly fashionable: read: bohemian chic.
Why do mine have beads still attached?
He pulls the decorative ripchord and his fly opens promptly.
He continues pulling it in sequence with the matching lamp; he alternates turning the lights on and off and opening and shutting his pants flap in admiration.
In case you really have to go.
CRAIG FURGUSON is satisfied with his work.
“The curtains match the drapes”
Fearsome, fearsome friends–
All that waits is Hollywood
and chosen five at ends of times
All that waits are kings and wisdom
All that knows are far, and farther
All that needs is nothing, lessons
All that fears is our kind
Kill God,
There remains a far price
Fear twins, have shattered
To notice us
Chatterbox
An ACHINGLY TALL red-headed fellow finds himself in a FIGHT TO THE DEATH, being cast over eons and decades, and cascaded in and our of portals throughout the ever-infinite dimensional portals of unknown realms as his grasp on life itself and reality begins to fade as he crosses in and out of parallels, one galaxy to the next and one lifetime to another, gripping death and darkness in one hand and light and living in the other. In this bloody brawl, scrawling across an expanse of unknown and unknowable times and realms, this mystic remains still yet as infinite and omniscient in himself as the Gods he looks to for mercy, as the journey has been known to become of these very same deities in its context and process. A folding timeline of blood and sacrifice melds itself into the rope of the materiel worlds; not one fabric of time but many twisted and woven fibers into one rope from which he climbs into the ranks of the upperworld–or heaven, then also slipping seemingly sometimes into the depths of the underworld, a Hell known to all man as this, existence not as one but many consumed in the shadow processes of wickedness and torture, war amongst one another, and the well known humanities of pride, faith, justice and wealth.
…this is supposed to be Conan?
“Achingly tall red-head?”
For not I weep of our pride on doorsteps not allowed,
But for the grace and hope of fortune in another world i've known
Do not feign me for my ignorance in desire,
For I am not of man, or woman, or grain, or stone
But of the world itself and all ire.
To be cruel not those who pass judgement
That weighs in this way or that is utmost critical,
In this the end of times and now the end of my desires,
And yet the way that I have known,
And the offer I have rung
Is not here, but elsewhere.
What the fuck does this have to do with show hosts.
Almost always Irish Catholic
Almost Always clothed in robes
Almost Always fathers, aren't I?
Almost always old, of Rome.
Almost always birds of feather
Almost always sticks and stones
Almost always on the airwaves
Almost always silver, gold
And whether she will slit her wrists
It's a comfort that I offer you to slaughter;
That you'd rather not to love but instead murder–
I'd be better off to love, then kill you after,
Course, tarantula, or just as well, a spider.
It's a comfort that I offer you to kill me;
Lay my head upon a sanded wooden platter–
That you'd rather me to say I'd kill than love you–
So I rather just to love, then murder after.
I close my palms together full of laughter,
I sacrified my life for ever after.
That all he wants, I want
My heart is surely shattered.
The shepherd to the pasture.
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