She’s a feature of on the TV Shows, this I know, to take it out along the ways a-ways at massive Wattage and 21+ age(s) only, this girl—the feature feathered Creature—with me the said-to “CREEPER” when I creeped on two girls in my past—but a Literature class, 1 of 2—I nailed (me to) being that I “failed” the memorization of Huckleberry Finn, that great Fun of -oh fuck- Mr. Blake and a threat, the position up front and ignored in Prose I—albeit with an A- in Poetry II—it was one only for that radical TV Show, with the Mrs. “She” of Holy shit—trapped and stuck in the bowels of a GRAVE-EL “PIT” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Of-lpfsBR8U) when This Is It, to stick the first shift, into 2nd gear, I recall, with the Turbocharged acceleration like Allah—John Deere I LICKED and “liked”—I told Vitalik Buterin with Vitamins—talking with the great Vitalik and about “LICKING” VITAMINS!—on the highways of Massive Pike picking when I’m not too fond of The Taste of LIP-stickers on that 5-speed shifter—and shifting perfections in my key-stroke me, stroke me, and that feeble old man named Jim Weeble—yes, and I take ANTI-SEIZURE pills, plus CBD in moderation, giving me God’s Gift (that strain I would contain in the cans, Northampton’s NETA in a far-off land…) if you want to drift when piloting a vehicle, yes, in a snowy parking lot, hit the brakes I’ve been writing about $CAKE and when, way back then, I’d sign my JMarquis-sig with a ballpoint pen, but when? Oh usually every month or so, or 3 weeks, passing a jeep of Grandma’s Cherokee roots, to the Toots of my horns and the noise-maker front and center
I just clicked ENTER not once but TWICE to be nice and create one additional paragraph, this whites-only WRITING… yeah it’s my craft and enjoy sitting sea-side (on this red love-seat) while eating LOW-CARB meets, my strong heart, it beets and pumps, when looking at all of the very heavy, fat losers here, probably drinking bubbles of Budweiser—that beer of monkeys in trees—the green is not to be seen, that nice medical-card I approach, applauding, Estée Lauder and Baywatch Pam. Queen, then proceeding onto KIM my K. with a dash of sugary cinnamon, to sin, to break the rules—me not injecting drugs like the worst of my kin, and me to rewind, yeah me so kind- to try to prevent the death of Dave, guilty of drinking and driving, in his past—a common occurrence—his D.U.I. I sign when I sign my name of this:
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To think, if his family had only HEARD ME, my voice on the phone, telling them postpone the celebration of David P. And his SUPPOSED SOBRIETY and him still on the devil’s HEROIN, he was a loser, and, who, I TRIED TO GET HIM A GREAT DEAL OF HELP, but to no avail, this after he showed up at my house drunk as a skunk and on sketchy-pills, the Opiates and alcohol withdrawals—they were so severe, this John Deere Stocks—Dave was into heavy drugs and white thugs with his addictions to various drugs—HE RISKED MY LIFE!—and having gotten two girls preggers, David P. how many grams of Oxy? A lot I bet and I know, silly ho, that my parents are my “HEALTH PROXY” and controlling me all over, Goliath pushing boobies boulders—that Movado BOLD—who would buy that watch for being sold, this at Macy’s for those in their 20’s and 30’s—I collect watches, and my gifts, the Queen with a weak wrist, and my enemies anger-ies, with THEM BEING MUCH LESS THAN ME, who, I see in the widescreen mirrors on TV’s abroad, investing in Euro’s with my Bank of France I had to cancel it—rubbing the scratch of me unattached, released from an Umm Bill? MY CORD! of wireless 5-GHZ, so no wires that I spell and sleep when I’m tired—but no caffeine pills… that they made me WIRED once Subscribing to the ‘Zine to be seen, a Data Queen and Geoff D. arriving on the scene of the “reservoir” catastrophe, traveling Audaciously apathetic and Authentic Authority to what “seems to be” when stitching belchers in the Bleachers at the Base-Ball to the Game, when my words ring Legit—just read my Public Ledger and I keep secret but well known, my Private Ledger, this through Merrill or PWM with Wayne Marquis, my rich and super-awesome Dad, he’s above me and I am Glad, that I have that, a powerful man to tip his hat—a Cap of Mr. Crunching NUMB3RS on the Texas Instruments graphic calculator, and a Playboy 1-800 caller, a CALENDER in a corrupt criminal’s kitchen of cooking up some CRACK—that David P., he smoked its fine-LOWER LOSER, ITS “FUMES”—I wish I smacked him to get him to stop injecting with needles, his giggles of heroin-contemplation with a shitty shirt all dirty and his fixation on opioids having used the jazz of his to inseminate two girls—believing he wouldn’t need a job—welfare addict—and I’m a w-w-w dot-com ADDICTED to this WRITING and me having been punched and pushed down by not only 1 and not a mere 2, but THREE JERKS HERE ASSAULTED ME WITH FISTS AND PUSHES!
Gimps in handicap crutches, usually the lashes eye-broad iPod, the narcotic sold by Brandon Hom—of Saint John’s—Him always high and taking Failing Level-II Classes, he had a lot of CASH’es with CC#’s of his, Hom a “chink in the armory”—injecting dope into his ARMS, like a suicidal one to kill himself, AND CALL ME SELFISH, but I’m wear the wealth is, Bitcoin, Stocks, Precious Metals, and maybe even a 2.5 Karat diamond for a ring, I hear a ding-ding-ding when I WEAR THREE RINGS, and on my right hand of mine, I’m fingering the keys to stroke the stoked blinker bright and full of green lights only, the acceleration and her moaning—but hold on, Bruce Fenton’s cellphone was “Roaming” when we left our connection in audio run for many hours of silence, him “rooming” asleep with a Chimney-Sweet Sweeper, him a Broom-er, and he demanded I pay him, Page him, his “beeping” and onto the pages of my Archives: www.alwayschillen.com/archive.htm