« Date written by Father Luke on August 09, 2011, 08:30:54 PM »
Listen, motherfucker, and let me make this clear: Iíve had your fucking poetry up to here Ė Your tender recollections and wistful reminisce: Excuse me, Mr. Shakespeare, whilst I go and have a piss.
Somebody start a fight or something
If I wanted Chekhov Iídíve worn my polo neck And brought along some high-strung bitch whoís anorexi-ec, But Iím wearing just a tee-shirt, Iím getting off my tits, The chick Iím withís a barker, and my life is full of shit.
Iím not a man of violence, but Iíll give no guarantee When Iím faced with symbolism and onamatapee: Thereís a fucking artist! Ė let me get my stick! You want a fucking beating? Címon, then: go sick.
« Date written by laine on April 09, 2011, 10:11:29 AM »
things change and they don't, huh?
i am in the same physical space, a different physical place and older. so much older.
i bumped into you about 6 years ago, you were living in a town with a santa in it? (my memory is... well, older too) near the coast i think. i spent a couple years in a small beach town, it was good for my soul. the sound of the waves filled my head and pushed out a lot of loose stuff.
i bounced around the forum and the blawg, saw i was a drifter. i probably will remain that, a drifter, but it's good to bump into ya again.