thee fucking champ

It's the Big Green Egg. . . in all it's glory

song number one is not a fuck you song
i'll save that thought for later on. . .

some crap song i'm workin' on. . . tentatively titled, No Taxes


(part I)

floating upon
excoriated seas
a day labour's dream

(is followed by part II)


a bifurcated sneeze
her freckle painted knees
a suitcase with no release {alfresco}

(which is followed by part III)

the tax collectors
in their broken shirts
writhe around on the floor
lickin' up the dirt

(and back to part I)

fatal red shoes
the skateboard rides again
the broken grass scrapes and itches

(II)

the inside of my brain (has)
showers of tawdry rain (where)
bullets are a strain {time for the lowdown}

(III)

(same)

(I)

unleash yr own personal alphabet!! etc. . .

after that there's some weird bridge thing and a strange transition i'm workin' on, but anyway. . . enough for now. . .

well it looked good when i wrote it out, but for some reason google, ie blogger doesn't pay attention to my spacing. . .

for B.F. and his good friend G.S.

dad (r. bradley) and eve

The visitors are. . .

lurking for a thousand compliments
but they won't get any from me.
not today.
i can't run out of reasons not to
try your strawberry/rhubarb jam
but i'm trying to
cause i know how much you like
strawberry/rhubarb jam
and so do i