My Favorite Book has a FACEBOOK, with no name but my own, with a crown, hitting the ground with my chest, as in Push-Up’s magnificent with my 2 cents on top of maybe $120 or $140 (in 20’s) million dollarino’s with Dorito’s and Tostito’s as I implore more of those funny rings of Onions, the Fun-yun’s as I Yang at Yale with my crank- of landing a Bitcoin Whale as in my best financial Investment with-in the Bitcoin knowledge of mine, my 250 Bitcoins- my Shrine that I never drink red wine or white wine, taking it behind the curtains at Vicky’s where I want to be paying pure purchases of G-stringy things, the Thongs, as my Hi-Fi radio plays songs by the Black rappers and Negroe singers playing tunes and inhaling the marijuana fumes, but not Too soon, Hi Emm, as I swoon and spoon-fed my last girlfriend who loved the ashy Ashley-Spoon — like heroin baked in a fork, so fuck the opiate junkies I know: with 2 of them dead, and 1 recovered with too-loud talking and missing all of his teeth, for me to jubilantly laugh, swimming to the raft and frantically fizzing out of the front of my teeth, and Tongue, that ladies love how I’m well-hung, hugging them tight, a new one every night with knitting my quivers- Olympics in Bejing- my bed, laying this cranium head onto a pillow that comes from Will Reverend to the end of my Minister’s life, his wife, a widow, I should phone her, To Console her spirit with Sobriety and never funny-tasting whiskey withers within- I believe: drinking alcohol is a sin, of the wicked-thirsty for sum booze, they are the ones who lose out on life, that wife, that widow, I knew her once, attending church, going through the motions of grape juice as my potion of The Charlton Federated Church- and those missing Rev. Chase in the movies with Charlie Sheen and Kristy Swanson, courtesy of “The Chase” that Henry Rollins was in, too, on Cinemax for you and those who like movies but not TV shows, like Seinfeld or the Garfield cartoons, on Sunday afternoons, broadcast abroad but bored with that old 1996 Ford Explorer — do you want more-er four wheel drive in your trucks, you screen-staring motherfuckers lucky enough to keep me right about writing this at now Sunday Night- the Freight of a lantern turning to darkness with a Blow, your hooks at these crooked ones who took my TV long ago, I know, it was the Staff at Chandler Gardens- so Ardent in their ways of refuting the refusal of farting gas out so loud, the Muslim women in their shrouds, screaming so loud, beneath a head-riff head-mask to deny the pleasure of seeing their kissable lips, like Tiph’s, some in-between what has yet to be seen, below a “Family”-tattoo, and shrewd, no shroud but a shout at the redundancy of denying me, such pleasure, I would endeavor to remove these Trowsers, not viewing “Brazzers” the dot-com that downloading full-films takes too long, but about that, with a rat-tat-tat, that there we go with the beat of the drum, to a lonely Chum the water to catch the Sharks, raping them of big sharp teeth, Torn out and scorned like Ecco “The Dolphin” on Klonopin (Clonazepam), having been prescribed to me, that I now have Xanax (Alprazolam) I take and feel easy, so as to please thee, being my next lover- or maybe I could be with Justine Aragona to the end of our staying Sober together, her she just may weather the fog, eating ham of Hogs, and once playing “Pegs” for legs so long ago, with a wheelchair then a walker, I am a writer who’s not much of a chatty Cathrine Talker, or being a college-girl Stalker, sad, and save for Mannie, Aunt Donna knows my love for this “Samantha R.” — Mrs. Donohue went to Anna-Maria AND SHE READS ME! Thus having her College Degree, but not in Chemical Botany, akin to the MMJ of yester-YEAR when I hear my parents say “NO THC” for we want you to BE ALL YOU CAN BE! Despite my very severe injuries, to my brain and hip, I won’t give anyone “A Fat Lip” of of course the Botox I received in my speech therapy, before the meeting, Denise at Fairlawn I would see, her so sweet, her hair and facial appearance always very “neat” and to eat, her not much when I hadn’t recovered enough from my injuries, that she was thin and slim and trim, free of gross hairs on her face — I told her to grow a beard — when she advised me: “NO BEER!” And home was far away, not nearly near with Brittany’s Curly Q -type hair, she was once down the street, but is now nowhere near, to be missed, her I never kissed, as the Python speaks a sinister “Hiss” at Hess gas station, those, sweeping the nation for a fill-up your truck like “FUCK! GAS IS SO EXPENSIVE!” that Amen for public transit, shaved in the pubic reason, I’ll peruse the sigh of “NO BOOZE” or boo’s from a ghost at home, at most, with Frosted Tips I’m reminded of Tiph and my Dad’s trimming my hair on my skull, that U2 sings the song “Numb” but not of Bono as the drummer sings the catchy tune- OH NO! IT’S THE COP A FEEL ON A MILF, that cats drink dishes of Milk or Half-and-Half when I laugh like a Gringo grinning as I don’t believe massaging myself is sinning, I’m not when I’m winning the Bitcoins and crypto-currencies demanding shy people, LOOK AT ME! wearing tads of fads of tasty clothes and NO FAGS! I’m left with a wet rag by the end of the night, I swear I swing on the ropes, The Ropes, girls feel intense gropes, although not from me, KEEPING MY HANDS TO MYSELF! I need no Elsa’s Eatery with banter of a terrific nature, ensnaring the hook of a fish on the cuff of the evening in May I My Dear? This upset wife refuses to hear, my dear, that now she listens up, lifting her cup — a Cod Piece, her dripping vaginas’ Yeast of baking a Bukakke Asian with a blur- that’s obsurd and an obscure reference to the older lady who has to always wear Depends, on who did it, with a Catheter’s Mitt, and Romney where the kitty-cat crumbs Be, or Are, on Noah’s Ark that’s fictional while presented as truth in the Bible- no one reads at Duane Reade’s the store of far ago, alas, I in the passed my classes and getting good grades, but I — not being much of a reader — I have seen her, Felicia in Mr. Blake’s class, her hair frosty and flakey, Volunteer, you cannot make me — while I once worked a Soup Kitchen and give to Charity in the Niagara region, at this now winter season, my reason for helping the cold, the chilly, and the needy, who need me and Rev. Anne Skinner of Hannah House some money, I’ll give her, sent in the mail — the Snail Mail USPS — that pee-ess I’m totally serious and my full belly that the needy need good food to EAT, with fitting shoes on their FEET! This urge to support others’ defeat, having been fired from a part-time job, the key goes into the knob, named Bob- your head to the BEAT! and homegrown herb that smells so fragrant and SWEET, for the defeated stoners hunched around a pipe of Shatter, and one-hitters are good for the Battered acorns that taste a lot like organic Bacon, with the degrees of Harvard’s own “Kevin Bacon” eating Keebler Elve’s and what else?
Oh yes, I’m all dressed, up, to greet Pop ’n’ Mum who come all the way from: my Charlton Mass, where I would sit at my Desk in my room, and before I knew it, it was too soon to purchase coindesk.com, for a night, when I rested long, keeping my worth, a Mommy after her babies birth, with lots of horrific moans, the doctor drones, “Push, Push, Push” and “C’mon we’re almost there!” soon-after saying to lovely but nervous Nurses, “””I CAN SEE THE HEAD!”””
Let go and let’s go to the “Get-’N-Go” station for gasoline, where the drunk driver doesn’t want to be seen, all along a stash of cigarette ash and cheap “Nips” with the liquor store’s local farmers whipping that old donkey’s ASS!