SPLIT EIGHT, avante guard. Woodland Visine byzantine boyscout federation. MMMmmm thinkspeak proto-wagon tonic. I like when you group words together in an abstractly collaged thought. It reminds me of how science fiction (or just very expressive and figurative language) can mate with rhyme writing to produce something out of the ordinary. Your language can disorient before it rewards, similar to a number of sea creatures. They confound, or blind, and then as they swim away you notice the intri***y and the quality of their defense mechanism. For you, the illustrative mechanisms seem to be based on thought impulse, direct inspirational current, and a vision that thrills you as you filter it onto a page.
Dry off your paws as you sink em in for any drops spilled in the basin.
^This line is a bit of a mind twister, and I question if that was intended. Either way, I like the sensation of uncertainty I garner from it.
Uma Thurman's in bed, dressed like a goldfish, and through the glasshouse the ocean looks as it always has - antiseptic, wild, non-drinking water. I got the images of clocks, photography and chemical imbalance from this verse. Thanks for the thought provocation.
Certain - You dropped the motherload, and went off. Highly impressed by this. You warmed up in the beginning but really settled into artillery-mode with heavy wit at the end.
The valium's in the fridge. The Magnum's in the cabinet.
The Trojan's stealing information from data on your tablet.
Saturn's rings are masking the lack of happiness in space
because we all know those fucking aliens are catalysts of rape.
She's a destroyer, like in Battleship the game,
with three holes to stick your peg in, and no passable escape.
But we're all aftermarket slaves, asking for a wage with no passion for the day.
And we can't exploit the rapture if we're captive to our pain.
^Damn, boy.
I'm sorry I missed this until now. My sleeping tendencies are bound to halt. Right. Now. ish.
Keep doing boom
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