A kind of ad lib style of poetry that i do. I make it up as I go along, and slip metaphors in here and there. It's really about the sound of words and the images they make in your head. Anyway, enough pretentiousness; Pheasant shine, swift of tongue, pull the sun out of the sky, and the world stays alight through artificial. Hey diddle, diddle, Ripened orbits crescent, Continential Incognito, that ales the yella' bellied scoundrel! The sonata of a thousand lies, lies beneath the earth, earth-ridden boy, boy oh boy. Made of plastic and disposable, Of yachts and imported cigars, and burning notes, and architechtural dreams, won't buy you acceptance. War on Terror... ironic! Censorship of fools, The kettle's "African American"! Red wine, room to swing a hat, spill the oil like blood, Rage of sea, hearken back, Press coverage! Press cover! press on, Rift by Drift or How We Came To Be Situated In Such A Suburban American Dillusion. Hearing a fell tree...
I don't like this poetry one bit, and I am only commenting to point out that the title "Ronald Ray-Gun", is stolen from Futurama.
