105 lines
6.7 KiB
Plaintext
105 lines
6.7 KiB
Plaintext
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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #577
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`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
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888 888 888 888 888 "Waiter, There's a Fly in
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888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8 My Primordial Soup"
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888 888 888 888 888 "
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888 888 `88b d88' 888 o by Miasma [4/14/99]
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o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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The words just keep coming like some amazingly talented nymphomaniac
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corn flakes don't smell so good in my room this fine fine afternoon. The
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crunching sound of my roomate just adds to the non-chalantness and good
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heartness of his soul. Encaged. Engaged. In battle slight mirror images
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relflecting on my screen I can see him crunching now as the milk slowly
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mocks at me from the sides of his mouth. Damn it, if he grins one more
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time, I think I'll have to hurt him. He's slurping now like pigs by a
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trough making noises my god this person needs to stop. The guitars to the
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left of me keep spinning screen savers never looked cool they just add to
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the confusion of this already confused room that's stationed in this
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already confused world. Damn cigarette wrappers and chewing gum foil
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strewn across together like seaweed like bubble fish Let's pickle.
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Mario's such a damned fool but ignorance is bliss they say and video
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games just work that way. I'm rhyming now and I don't choose to. isn't
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that a sign of insanity? keeping up in rhythm and beat and rhyme like some
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nonsensical genius. Please I don't want any. it's enough for me, I'm full
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of shit, thanks. No no, you can have some more if you'd like.. you seem to
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slop it up just fine. Thank you for abusing at&t. Staring eyes of pickle
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juice that green that envious poisonous dried up mucus green hocked up just
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knocking into each other while the metal balls surround it in a cage of
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lightning wonderment. Standing room only, bitch.
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The status quo believes in this and so should you will someone stop
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that friggen noise it keeps repeating to itself trying to believe its own
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bullshit. It's like terror only better. Fellowship and honor and all that
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good stuff. Don't you know it makes a good meal. It's popping fresh
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dough. Should I be knocked up or something pregnancy never seems right to
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me in a country defined on rape and cheese. Don't squeeze the charmin,
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that's sexual assault. It might come back at you with a lawsuit or bathing
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suit or some kind of outerwear. Lightbulbs going off and on like breaking
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glass and chimney stacks blowing coal smoke all over my new wedding dress.
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Don't throw rice at me, bitch. Seems there's some frustration here I don't
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know where it stems from but would I be glad to find out? Just wait on
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line please, we'll be with you in a moment.
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My stomach aches I don't know if it's the dining hall food or the
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fact that 've been sick for a week. Sick of what tho, that's the question.
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Shiver me timbers but don't blow me down. I'm too high, I can see my house
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from here. Deserted in the desert with some magic sand and daffy duck.
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Boy do I miss those days of cartoon reasoning. Taking breaths and short
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ones at that, Sucks to yer asthmar! This pointy shell doesn't mean shit.
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Break in half, break it all down, come tumbling tumbling down that hill
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Jack fucked Jill and all that's left is some naked sperm on the edge of the
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bed. C'mere little doggie. I think best in the shower and late at night
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before the twlight and the evening infect me I do a little dance before I
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make love tonight. Slipping down the ladder rungs I don't recall the last
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time that I had a power pellet. I guess it's a paradise lost at a
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childhood's end. Raking in the benefits, that's all there's time to do.
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Just raking it in like some bastardized landscaper. Atop the highest
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mountain of a molehill. Fuck expressions, I want reality.
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Mutters, rambling, and other positive feedback of words that just
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come thru the top of my brain and end up at the points of my fingers like
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dogs sleeping awoken by nightmasters waiting for a whipping benfore they
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get back to their nightmares of abuse. How envious we can all become of
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others true and small. Their lips grow bigger by the minute and I'm left
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staring at large mouths with small voices. I think this is too
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metaphorical for me it needs to be brought down to such a superficial
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level. Understanding is just too tough for some people isn't it? I should
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be psychic, you know. I think giraffes would prefer it best.
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Listening to chaotic tunes over red balloons, purple horseshoes, and
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could it be? Green fucking clovers spreading themselves thin. Lucky, my
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ass. Thumping beats stumbling like clumsy penguins just chatting away like
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ignorance in a bottle, kept and placed on a shelf for the others to enjoy.
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Fanatically obsessed? I do so declare! A fortitude of numbers of time
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clauses and phantom rocks that keep pelting on the newly fallen dirt.
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Clumsy me, clumsy me. Next time I'll leave the shade up. Too much light
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never gets in here. Am I confusing me yet? I doubt it. Maybe I'll just
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keep on pressing just squeezing, wringing out the towels of garbage onto
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ants. Simple creatures squashed under nike shoes and keds. I used to own
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British Knights when I was a kid. BK baby! I could really go for a
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Whopper right about now. I need to feel my arteries clog. Need that
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tightening, constricting feeling of pins and needles and heat, oh that
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piercing heat. Like flaming earings with tainted stubs. Handcuffed and
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wrapped up tight in a reclosable package. Like mozarella cheese. 'cept
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less clumped together at the bottom. Stretching through the crawl space to
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reach for something I kept in the back of my closet long, long ago.
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Childhood memories are never good enough nightmares. You need more
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boogiemen, that's what I always say. At least, that's what I always try to
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say. Words never seem to act the way you want them to. They come out and
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they're there, unspoken words, too. Just plastered against the canvas for
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the art critic to see and say "What the fuck is this mess?" I don't care
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to put myself on display, you see. Talented as always. Burger King crowns
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with their little puzzles that were always too easy to solve but always
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enjoyable nonetheless. I miss those days of childhood, lost against the
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corkboard of time. Let me tack up another push-pin and put a nice little
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label there. All neat and organized. Like dogshit on a sidewalk. And
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just as wanted.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #577 - WRITTEN BY: MIASMA - 4/14/99 ]
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