53yrs • M
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by Wolf Larsen
Look in your angrrry-swiiirling-mirrooor, and tell me the face thou viewest
In these times faces are seething with worry-worry-worry!
Faces whose fresh lightning flashes you are always eating,
But now you’re fornicate-ing the world into a new BLAST! You're fucking your mother until not even the sunlight knows which planet it's shining on!
For where is the thousand moons of a lunatic’s hands?
And why did you poop in the middle of the sidewalk?
Or who is the wong of the wap?!?
Of this seLf-collApse-ing-eXploSion,
You are your mother's penis-cloud! And she’s becoming a he!
So call back the psychedelic soldiers of the dandelion fields!
And we'll see through windows into yesterday, we’ll see heroic ages of silence!
Because despite the pink umbrellas flooaating down the sky, this is the golden time of jazz-art-explooosion.
But if these words live, remember'd for orange-Twinkie-Colossus,
Then die like a pOem, diE like a cOllapsing skY, die liKe a mOody sYmPhony, and your image dies with you – breakfast toast!
Copyright 2012 by Wolf Larsen
by William Shakespeare
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.