...who are sorely fucked in the head, people stop bothering to make sense, or to tell the truth as they see it, or to support social causes kept in the hands of irrational, angry alt left/alt right bigots, an individual on the fringe may resort to pure silliness. No need for substance, no one is responding to it. I'm just fine with this national social disaster. Please enjoy the nonsense I composed the other day and pasted below. Cheers.
Bongo Dooma, Dear Friends
A new sound has come into my days. The sound of something like a drum, you might envision bongos, and that's just fine, for now. Up the pike you will amend vision. It is not a bongo drum. It bongs, it is struck with the hand. If you didn't bring one, there are extra here, in the chapel.
Bongo Dooma is chanted while drinking orange juice sweetened with ripe figs. From a ceramic mug. From Dollar Tree. It is our shrine to the things we must buy, one item at a time, a dollar a pop. We get bread from the Goodwill Store, where it is left out front for the vagrants. I, my dear cousins, am a vagrant.
The Bongo Dooma only now can be revealed, for true. It is this noise, the noise of bubbling amniotic jizz, heard while in utero, and remembered, in spite of conventional forgetting. You always remember, but you fuzz the fuck out of it, for you have other shit to do. The Bongo Dooma returns, grateful to be accepted in your head dress. You are at peace. The fluids you pickled in during gestation evaporated long ago. But they are are still here. They are here. Condensing on a burned out light bulb. Dripping behind a loose sheet of wall board. Dampening the futon you sleep on. No fluids, no joy. You are happy, you see. I am certain. Thank you. You are standard.
Bongo Dooma, Dear Friends
A new sound has come into my days. The sound of something like a drum, you might envision bongos, and that's just fine, for now. Up the pike you will amend vision. It is not a bongo drum. It bongs, it is struck with the hand. If you didn't bring one, there are extra here, in the chapel.
Bongo Dooma is chanted while drinking orange juice sweetened with ripe figs. From a ceramic mug. From Dollar Tree. It is our shrine to the things we must buy, one item at a time, a dollar a pop. We get bread from the Goodwill Store, where it is left out front for the vagrants. I, my dear cousins, am a vagrant.
The Bongo Dooma only now can be revealed, for true. It is this noise, the noise of bubbling amniotic jizz, heard while in utero, and remembered, in spite of conventional forgetting. You always remember, but you fuzz the fuck out of it, for you have other shit to do. The Bongo Dooma returns, grateful to be accepted in your head dress. You are at peace. The fluids you pickled in during gestation evaporated long ago. But they are are still here. They are here. Condensing on a burned out light bulb. Dripping behind a loose sheet of wall board. Dampening the futon you sleep on. No fluids, no joy. You are happy, you see. I am certain. Thank you. You are standard.
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