1 The Hornet's Vanity Ev' poet, ev' writer, Ev' singer, ev' artist, has an immortality box-, one as big as their coffin.
Here is where they lay-way their past, present, for the future...
; after they're gone.
After the aspiration bird has flew the cope, and they died, (left them to rot as maggots in there sarcophagus).
Even after death the: poet, writer, singer, and artist, want to fly into the hands of the mortal living (dive like an eagle).
He dreams he is painted on the walls of caves (not yet discovered); painted on canvas, written in a book, detailed in a poem, made into a statue, itched on street signs, when in essence, he'll never know; oh, yes, he wants to be on coins also, and stamps (like kings and presidents)-; and he hopes to change the world before he dies, he wants to be known that he came, he was, once alive.
Where in the world did he get such a notion? Perhaps the bird is not a bird...
but a hornet with big wings, and a big silent sting! #2294 (2-28-2008) Written today at Starbucks, in Circle In Lima, Peru (300 PM) 2 Lazy Boy A lazy boy is like a hand full of dung, the longer you hold on it, the more it smells; the more it smells, the more people end up looking at you, as if its yours.
#2296 (2-28-2008) 3 Madness My madness is under my scalp-; if I had a wig, I'd have no trouble getting rid of it..
..
I thought about laying in the snow and freezing my madness: and my wife said that was, "Insane...
!" O, I am empty for any more ideas, witless, clueless! Meanwhile, I simply endure, - and point my finger, middle finger, every which way.
#2295 (2-28-2008) When I'm Dead When I'm dead I'll ask the Lord if I can come back for a spell, to make sure my wife, Rosa is well...
and I'm sure He'll say yes; and to let her know, she can go on with life...
I'll see her later beyond the tunnel's light.
#2297 ((11:30 PM)(2-28-2008)) Written at home, in Lima, Peru
Here is where they lay-way their past, present, for the future...
; after they're gone.
After the aspiration bird has flew the cope, and they died, (left them to rot as maggots in there sarcophagus).
Even after death the: poet, writer, singer, and artist, want to fly into the hands of the mortal living (dive like an eagle).
He dreams he is painted on the walls of caves (not yet discovered); painted on canvas, written in a book, detailed in a poem, made into a statue, itched on street signs, when in essence, he'll never know; oh, yes, he wants to be on coins also, and stamps (like kings and presidents)-; and he hopes to change the world before he dies, he wants to be known that he came, he was, once alive.
Where in the world did he get such a notion? Perhaps the bird is not a bird...
but a hornet with big wings, and a big silent sting! #2294 (2-28-2008) Written today at Starbucks, in Circle In Lima, Peru (300 PM) 2 Lazy Boy A lazy boy is like a hand full of dung, the longer you hold on it, the more it smells; the more it smells, the more people end up looking at you, as if its yours.
#2296 (2-28-2008) 3 Madness My madness is under my scalp-; if I had a wig, I'd have no trouble getting rid of it..
..
I thought about laying in the snow and freezing my madness: and my wife said that was, "Insane...
!" O, I am empty for any more ideas, witless, clueless! Meanwhile, I simply endure, - and point my finger, middle finger, every which way.
#2295 (2-28-2008) When I'm Dead When I'm dead I'll ask the Lord if I can come back for a spell, to make sure my wife, Rosa is well...
and I'm sure He'll say yes; and to let her know, she can go on with life...
I'll see her later beyond the tunnel's light.
#2297 ((11:30 PM)(2-28-2008)) Written at home, in Lima, Peru
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