Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

all i ever wanted was a ham sammidge

thank you for reading my stuff - i always wonder if you are going to like it

just cut the throat of a poem it was going nowhere in a timely fashion i squeezed it around like the lemon it was i used the old juxtaposition scam i reconfigured, i reconnoitered and loitered, around and around in that treasure chest of memories that turns up every now and then like a gilligan's is...

thank you!

just cut the throat of a poem it was going nowhere in a timely fashion i squeezed it around like the lemon it was i used the old juxtaposition scam i reconfigured, i reconnoitered and loitered, around and around in that treasure chest of memories that turns up every now and then like a gilligan's is...

always a pleasure, mr irish

king prune works his magic from the porcelain throne unraveling dark mysteries plumbing the stygian depths the stinky heart of darkness eat what you will cheese it the fuck up king prune sneers at your puny efforts your so-called intestinal fortitude means nothing to the dark lord bow to him, but re...

it's a fruit of another color as wrinkled as an old arab but with more moisture a camel can shit for seven days on one serving of the little black mutha o noble harbinger of things to come cleanser of festering evil the black avenging angel will break the bonds that bind us from the inside out, reme...

well done, irish

you
are more
than
welcome!

my pen descending the octaves plumbing the bass notes manic tympanic the congo bongo indeed the natives are restless and dance in tropical flavors like mambo 26 and tango meringue the race has been run the beguine has begun i was only looking for some fun son why you do this to me dini the power of ...

the semi-sweets are my favorite too. that the little ponies like them comes to no surprise to one such as i.

onward to mongolia, where poetry is curved and music is linear!

thank you, gentlemen

lost lenore's in baltimore
the muse sings
through cobblestones
and the plumes of tugboats,
in patterson park she spoke to me
there, in the halls of mnemosyne
poet, wayward son
sing of the polis
the city of your birth