Yeah, I bet that helped. A ton. Anyway. Here's my most recent....crap. Actually, I think I've gotten a lot better.
In all of Western Civilization, throbs never cancelled faster than the day that Hell was renamed "Anticipation." The recycled lungs of Rennaisance monsters spewed glitter and tar from the brims. Street corner surveillance found that their fees were tax-free, but shame still crept like disease into every door and dumpster hiding the truth. The alleys are flooded with mascara, bitterly streaming down the cheeks of Lady Liberty. There is no diction here, no purpose or glimmer of hope. Take a step back and view the youth of an age that has sent them to an early grave. Our girls are now urchins that fade in and out of virginity; our men are but boys dressed to resemble gutter punk royalty. Nigh a taut tourniquet in this calamity, where bruises become fashion and the pain is just another role played in a gruesome daily schedule. You have found a rash paradise, beautiful in the eyes of every dweller, and in every mouth of every store clerk dances a proverb of sympathy. However grateful, this appearance is route and it's the only way that we can make it through in life. By 10 the night life is wide awake and the clamor is almost too sad to be true; it's a daily routine of desperation highs and sweet, sweet sorrow. It's about that time; you can taste the sulphur adhering to tagged alley walls and they're closing in, tighter and tighter, so peel the skin from your teeth and find some light before the sun sets over the promenade.
I'm Anti-Social... Wanna Talk About It?
Sequences read malfunction. Abandon ship, throw down the liferaft, and tread like it's going out of style. We've got to make it to shore before the waves overtake us like prisoners of war. This could be my last chance to tell you, so I'm going to tell you everything. I've always thought you a curse to my existence, what held me back, yet kept my momentum. Well, folks, the hysterics are flat, the light show is off track, and everything is dark blue. Our enemies have crippled the cosmos, and the event shall be called exposure. They're onto us. The grounds have been flooded with civilians and unauthorized personel. Not enough ballistics or projectile devices could rid us of the parasites who infiltrate this hypothetical underground railroad. Your eyes are shifting, general, and your palms reak of sweat and betrayal. Could it be? All along. Comrade, you're not one of us.
Pseudo Savoir Vivre
The district supervisors looked at what they had become and they saw that it was good. Surgery prep is made possible by tar-soaked trachea saturated in Wall Street slavery drool, a salivation scheme found available at all hours of morn til a dank, depressing eve. Buckle down, sailors, and plant staples in your jaws before Battlestar obscurity takes a nosedive straight through your dreams of Paris and silk. Amendment. This isn't happening. No, your honor, this can't possibly be real! I, too, have now subsided to find myself knee-deep in the fierce underdow of civilization, and as if likened to unfamiliar lipstick shades, I want a divorce. It's only been fourteen days and our faith has run vacant, I'm giving in. This ceremony is decrepit and washed up like the victims of a typhoon. Only desperation and tired objections captivate the press and jury, only the clinking of glasses and muffled coughs break the silence of regret. Microphones held fast with rust and station numbers chronicle the changing of intentions, as if there on screen for the whole world to see. The gavel drops and men at work are appointed guilty of draining their own lives, living for tomorrow and other agreements made by a higher kind. The league of important persons has spent our tax dollars building a pollutant-free utopia that we'll never see. Chalk it up to bad planning and worse information. General, the whites of their eyes are in plain view but this pistol has no trigger. Maybe it's an omen of settling, perhaps an answer to anarchy. Maybe I'm collapsing, and oh God, my skin is getting thick. I'm breathing through one lung and this ring doesn't look familiar. My joints are freezing like criminals and my back now carries a heavier load. I am an undaunted conversationalist... I'm the King of the Road.
Racing for the border between New Jersey and Hell, there are mannequins amongst machines. These are my counterparts, true soldiers of malice. The bruises blend beautifully. There are good vibes and bad vibes. Sugar, yours are unlawful. I'll trade you the millennium for all of my teeth seated accordingly at the grand finale. There are no prophets here. Their commentary is like a nine-year homily on instability and heartache. It's just not entertainment, DeVille. Ian MacKaye directed a score of yellow eyes in prognostic uproar. Now his military is out of control. It's chauvinistic incarceration, an overture of apes. Rendezvous' with clouds are a dead fad of the verbally secure. Relay the message that if you hear no evil, and see no evil, you're bound to speak to a division of sheep that cater to proverbs dripping thick with ignorance. The scenery is unstable, and we're the flock to be hunted. If we don't act now, we'll probably eat the dirt we walk, and this is not a plan of necessary action. In a group full of kings, I'm the joker and the odd man out. But pay no mind. You know me, boss --- I always get my man.
Probably rockin' typos up the ass, it's early.