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watching the Strange dig deeper for food.

At the end of every blackhole is a Sun.
Earth (like) is only possible, if blackhole tails are
long enough and all the suns
are healthy - still.
That’s why I listen to Chris Cornel, so he can think
And I can listen, sometimes I pay him to do it
And then he looked at me and went insane.
I like playing poker, it can see a man’s soul much like binocular in war -
if the game is big enough -
yes, that is Doyle Brunson philosophy, he said.
be your self and know you always got to take something more than the rest of the people on the table, winner is a state of always.
And then you looked at me and went insane.
In a moment, they connected, it felt strong, opposite from her unusual softness for infidelity, mistook it for a lifetime,
a distraction from a crowds’ contract. Whatever. it was rather pleasant.
Something happen afterwards, it was as if that casual encounter was the center of happiness, and she was so pre-occupied with her own life…that instead of taking the plunge she brazed it, and now she feels its scar, she almost feels the scorns, I say: she is Happy Damaged.
Oh my god, you’re talking about me.
And then she went insane.
So I said what if we have a connection that will allows us to see our cards discreetly,
As we play x-box.
He said they are already working on it.
I went insane.
99 cents for this!
then we went Insane.

22 Apr 09

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Crazy at every corner, brittle with a funny smile.
 — unknown

thanks for the nice sound garden..
 — syrossoul

honestly, amazing title, flashes of brilliance, superb concept -- but it needs to be tighter.
 — unknown


is there a rage against the machine undertow in this?
: )
 — fractalcore

wow -- telling us 'in-sane-iterations' from alliteration to obliteration using vicarious angles from askew to oblique provides a sort-of backward slipping beat -- always we ride the crest of the wave of I toward a further shore of oblivion -- here you've made us 'feel' the angst of the hours falling into desperation --  the time-is out of joint, o' cursed spite, what man was ever born to set it right -- the whirl'd turned inside of you, a-round, a-bout, as whirls do, a sigh escaped as you passed, alas, from ecstasy into the crash -- the poet is one who brings a fresh focus to the everyday, fresh eyes to the mundane, with music in the ecstasy of broke-back words in how they fly away off the page in particles 'n waves, with lip-synchronicity and all the metasensory expansions 'n contractions, falling and getting up again to constantly risk absurdity -- well done!
 — AlchemiA

Thanks for the comments. Glad this piece got some attention.
 — unknown