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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 23, 2017 - 09:04am PT
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nothing too profound
it’s neither here not there
it’s vanished to thin air
it’s not where i’d thought it left
perhaps there’s been some petty theft
like the loom and warp and weft
it’s all a mystery to me
furthermore
like when is it too much
to ask you not to touch
my toys and tools and such
i thank you very much
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Dec 23, 2017 - 10:51pm PT
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It’s Just the Oread Again
By the firelight I noticed it
Such things I thought most clear to me
Not conflicting
Nor uncertain
Referenced only in mythology
But oh what other could it be?
In the darkness through the window
‘Twas the Oread who came to me
The Oread she beckoned
And through the glass she whispered
Directly to my inner mind
Drawing every inner thought from me
She communicated wordlessly
And struck me with a viral seed
Of nightshades otherworldly
To my knees I crumpled feebly
By the firelight I then wept
Fearing loss and painful death
So pitiful
So fruitless
So open and so shamelessly
Though I knew that she was watching
I stepped out to the night
Where she hovered there ethereally
Whatever did she want I asked?
Whatever would she take from me?
I implored from her this shimmering form
Though she returned an empty stare
And turned her back as if I’d know
For many days she did not return
Until one evening by the grotto
There beneath the weeping willow
When I approached near to the shore
She was waiting by the water
A flickering
A hovering
In silence as I met her gaze
Those burning eyes pierced through mine
There were no secrets left to share
As she diminished in the haze
That evening by the firelight
She brushed by me and appeared
A shimmering the same as last
Like memories once lost it came
The recent trip to windswept slopes
On a mountain high o’er my abode
That’s when I first had noticed
An aberration I could only hope
Stepping across a snow bridge
I had fallen to an icy creek
Then a flickering
And Shimmering
What injury did befall me?
The assault upon my senses rang
Only ankle deep the water ran
You’d think I’d gotten off Scot free
And I never gave a thought to it
That day out in the wilderness
When something brushed beside me
Stalking me for some reason
Haunting me so unaware
A brick might land upon my head
Several stitches more or less I’d say
And shrug it off without care
Now the Oread hovered near me
Assessing me as was her way
Not judging me
I’m guessing
But waiting there for my next move
I was tiring of this standoff
Rising suddenly I pushed past her
Not caring if she’d disapprove
I struck out for the mountain
Donning boots and overcoat
And hiked the trail by moonlight
As the sweat poured from my brow
And hoping she would follow
With naught but dread anticipation
Of the outcome or the cost
Of abandonment and sorrow
There upon the snowy bank
I trudged to a depression where
That flickering
And Shimmering
Transcended to crescendo
And I cried out to the night
That she finally take her leave of me
But I heard nothing but the wind blow
Many years have come and gone
Since the Oread first appeared to me
And I sit beside the fire at night
With reverie and some solitude
Wondering at how it might’ve been
And hear a rapping on the window pane
It’s just the Oread returning home
Oh how it’s nice to have a friend
-bushman
12/23/2017
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Dec 24, 2017 - 04:33am PT
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Stepjack
Young Stepjack was a climbing lad who ran the Highland glens
He tore it up in the land of lochs on tor and fell and fens
He’d climb any thing that was taller than him and do it quite handily
He’d shove projectors aside and then he would glide to the top--so effortlessly
No one was better than this eager go-getter at speedy ascents in a day
But once word got out there were others no doubt who did not see things that way
It led to a series of climb-offs that did the Old School not much good
Folks did not care who they saw in the air they simply were there to see blood
Old Stepjack stepped away clean in each race he was in--a marvelous sight to take in
The others all lagged and became sorely fagged and Stepjack kept on for the win
His streak it got long and just like this song it one day came to its end
He parted the crowd as he walked away proud and that was that. The End.
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Dec 24, 2017 - 12:27pm PT
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Thank you kindly, Bushman. My ears easily detect good rhythms in your poem as well. Keep up the good work.
Quote from The Nature Conservancy : "Great Horned owls take life-long mates."
Clearly I've deliberately picked an animal requiring less marrying work.
Seaweed
All along the bent and angling coast
seaweed strands in sunken coves
abandon their beached forms
from wave to wave
I always chase after them
their strewn bobbing heads
roll as dead bodies
from wave to wave
What seaweed does not hide
short stories of unknown depths?
submarine worlds where time itself
folds into layered shelves
Under every rubbery leaf
striped then strung to tether in running bands
veins on my father's arm
long long ago
An unseen drift marks the sea's closing line
to leeward straits where I now stand
feet in the sodden growth soil
hand against the shaded bulb
A frothing whirlpool gathers all the seaweed
roped and braided in dulsing patterns
soft crests fall soundless into outstretched arms
then slap against the burying stone
W.T.
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unlocked gait
Gym climber
the range
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Dec 25, 2017 - 09:18am PT
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i was asleep.
and then i wasn't.
and then i was.
and then i wasn't.
and now i'm wasn't.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Jan 15, 2018 - 04:56pm PT
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The Ballad of Billy Bominalong
Walking down the street was Billy Bombinalong
who had a head full of visions about Miss Suzy Wong
a virgin according to the Chinese tong
He muttered in his beard in a mild sing-song
all buzzed on some tea we know as "Dan Cong" *
a very high grade of Guangdong oolong
The time was pretty close to Evensong
and he heard the sounds of a gamelan gong
not too distant maybe one furlong
From the other way came walking along
the famous dwarf ape they call Little King Kong
strolling with the character actor named James Hong
They were trying to sing an old love song
but the ape got tripped up by a tough diphthong
that came out like some kind of raucous birdsong
He was reminded of the time he met Erica Jong
whose zipless f*#k needed something one foot long
maybe like the one on old John Long :0)
Then he stopped to see the gang at the Cafe Hussong
who were celebrating new years with a crowd of Hmong
and they were eating what was left of a roadkill dugong
He didn’t stop though and kept going along
because he felt he didn’t really belong
so he took out his cell to call Kaholatingtong
Hello there, son, he said in a voice of sing-song
have you decided to buy this 4 inch bong-bong
or are you gonna just keep trying to string me along?
No sir not at all and don’t get me wrong
I wanted it but then I’m headstrong
Just give me more time, it won’t be overlong
How about we meet up for some games of Mah Jong
or maybe we could play some of that Donkey Kong
or some other competition like maybe ping pong?
Oh that might be cool like a sesh of quigong
I know a devotee who calls himself Fong
He wears no top but has a sarong
Sometimes he’ll dress in a blue bikini thong
like some soldier of the Viet Cong
and he’s willing to work for a Hostess Ding Dong
Billy hung up after saying “So Long”
and stuck his right eye with an antelope prong
and he proceeded with singing his swan song
The tune was one by the virtuoso Lang Lang
and was neither too short nor was it too long
and involved several forms of a Chinese triphthong
He passed into the state known as b’donkadonkdong
And he assumed a shape like a short oblong
And was reborn to the tune of a cradle song
--Ching & Chong & MFM
* Dan Cong is the champagne of Oolongs and the higher grades can fetch fantastic prices.
Picked from old trees grown around the town of Chao Zhou in Guangdong,
it produces a rich, orange-brown liquor that can explode on the palate
with intense flavors of apricot and honey
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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The Fisherman
Lowering down he would not swear
But wore his grimace silently
Pulling EB’s from his blistered feet
He wiped the sweat off of his brow
And tears away from sunburnt cheeks
I’ll get it next time he’d say
Bowing his head in a quiet prayer
Mumbling a psalm or favorite verse
His eyes lit up while he looked down
With a jubilance so unrehearsed
Years gone by and memories fade
But not so those of he and I
The blueness of two eyes like mine
Blood to blood and soulful sighs
I miss him still I would not lie
Do you know Christ the savior he
Was seldom ever heard to say
A message carried by his work
Firsts and far away pursuits
I still remember to this day
Friends who showed up from afar
Still wanting near though he was gone
Swapping stories of the fisherman
Held something of him in their hearts
But most a joyous young man’s song
-Tim Sorenson
03/02/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 14, 2018 - 03:45am PT
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Don’t Call Yourself a Job Creator
When I was just a boy
We went to church
And went to school
On Saturday there was fishing
And the fireworks were cool
We weren’t wealthy
And we had plenty
At least my grand folks did
All the poor folks smiled
When we came around
Though just a child
I was not so easily fooled
When we worked we worked
And when we played
Or rested up
No one spoke
About catching up
Debt was debt
That’s all it was
But when the bosses came around
Reminding us what work we had
As if we owed them for our jobs
I hated them
The heartless slobs
And when full circle
Came around
I started my own business
No more working for crumbs
Having lived on less
I tried fair play
With those I hired
Never lording over them
And I rarely fired
Remembering those days
I’d been abused
By some arrogant employer’s ways
So when I hear those
Political speeches
There on the news
All their corporate bosses
And the terms they use
Claiming they are the job creators
Emphasis on creator
It’s just theatre
The bottom line is
It’s their only concern
Their profits they’ll take
While your future burns
The men in the suits
The conceited bastards
They’ll haul in the bread
While you toil and sweat
Or they’ll have your head
The workers are the true job creators
For selling the product
Is all they’re after
Those capitol men have it figured out
You’ll be just a pawn
Or you’ll do without
Then you’ll be gone
If you own a business
That you’ve built from scratch
Don’t ever forget
Who deserves the credit
Or you’ll come to regret
And rue the day
When retribution comes
Because you’ll be next
So don’t lie and say
Like a loathsome jerk
That you’re a job creator
Like you’ve done all the work
-bushman
03/13/2018
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 14, 2018 - 03:47am PT
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Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
Coming soon
to a neighborhood near you
You won’t have to wait
and even if you do
They don’t serve them dogs
they don’t serve up fries
They won’t even serve you
a cockroach no lies
So come on down
to Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
And get you a selfie
with Suzie Wazoo
A close confidant
to the man with the doo
You can drive-thru today
at Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
The pizza ice cream
now the flavor of the day
And you’ll just have to taste
the fish yogurt soufflé
The sea urchin pudding
is featured all week
And those tree moss smoothies
to die for you’ll shriek
So come on down
to Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
And get you a selfie
with Suzie Wazoo
A close confidant
to the man with the doo
You can drive-thru today
at Bowinkle’s Drive-Thru
-squeezeman
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 15, 2018 - 11:15pm PT
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Space Force
Taking a queue
from the idiot in chief
It’s another lame idea
that’s beyond all belief
In his newest endeavor
if you believe the hype
He’ll declare war in space
while the cheddar is ripe
His ‘Space Force’ idea
don’t blink they’ll be more
The latest from one who
can’t spell ‘Marine Corps’
Don’t blink or you’ll miss
What this pompous moron
Has next on his plate”
Oh god I can’t go on...
-bushman
03/15/2018
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Mar 16, 2018 - 11:11am PT
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As Little Boys
As little boys
we rode bikes
fast down the dunes,
on the vertical side
of Sand City
Big tires creased
deep furrows
in the down-slope,
same as boats trailing
wakes upon the swell
At the leeward portion
of the great sand hills
the long bronze
shadows of late noon
stretched to east
Meeting low pines
over ice plants
just as early suppers
smoked the spice
into mists above
Under which boys grew hungry
and boys grew weary
when drawn on-shore,
but grew bold again
when looking back to sea
Then fortified, soon returned
astride soft summits
as if to challenge
the long leading
boundary of night
A boundary against which
little boys are forbidden,
because bay breakers
rage half-seen
against the land
Because the turnstiles
of time get sand
in the gears and
the rising moon
comes fully into its own
Because the dusk sea
compresses foggy dimensions
into the unlearned territory
of young hearts
with full moon in the eyes
Of four-foot warriors
solemn in afterthought
huddled in a circle
as night overtook
a long day of handiwork
And even the bike furrows
grew silent at last
their contours to vanish
in darkening flatness
somewhere below our feet
WT
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 16, 2018 - 07:01pm PT
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^^^^^
That's beautiful, Ward.
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Ward Trotter
Trad climber
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Mar 17, 2018 - 12:54pm PT
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Thank you, Bushman.
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Marlow
Sport climber
OSLO
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Mar 20, 2018 - 11:18am PT
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Rain will fall again
on your smooth pavement,
a light rain like
a breath or a step...
The breeze and the dawn
will flourish again
when you return,
as if beneath your step.
Between flowers and sills
the cats will know.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2018 - 12:43pm PT
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The Burning Of the Animals In America
The sacrificial smoke lies thick in the skies above the suburbs
As the sun begins to set and the smells of spices and herbs
And cooking meat all contend for our attention,
making my stomach rumble.
At this end of the block we have three grills devoted solely to burgers.
Down at the other end is a large fire with twenty chickens broiling.
And interspersed here and there, some fine steaks are grilling,
alongside various ribs, brats, roasts and fillets.
Not to mention all the corn, baking potatoes, beans and salads.
And in due course the fireworks will begin, celebrating the deaths of these animals,
congratulating ourselves on how well we eat in this country.
How’s dessert coming? Need a hand? 'nother beer?
--MFM
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 31, 2018 - 09:01am PT
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The Vessel
Now such is our story as stories go
One Saturday eve when we had to go
With tickets to Verdi’s sad Rigoletto
While parking there before the show
The last garage was almost closed
So down and down and down we drove
To what level we did not know
Where deeper down my patience slowed
As several parking cones were mowed
God knows who else was indisposed
While swerving down those endless rows
To finally pull in by a nose
We parked somewhat all juxtaposed
Between the stairs and a firehose
We saw the elevator sign
Approaching as though by design
The light flickered just once then died
Which startled me I will not lie
As much as when a rat ran by
We found our way by cellphone light
To a stairwell chained and locked nearby
Where the elevator door was pried
All exit there on foot denied
Returning to our car to split
The engine stumbled once then quit
A single exclamation sh#t
Issued from my angry lips
As we resigned to wait and sit
Locked in our car as we took small sips
From a water bottle and ate some chips
With no cel transmission to emit
We settled down in our sunken ship
Discussing how we’d come to grips
With a war or zombie apocalypse
I did not know how long we’d slept
But the air was stale as a chill then crept
Suggesting I’d go search a bit
From the car door to my feet I leapt
In the silent darkness of that crypt
My feeble plan of action yet
To look for others in a similar fix
Her sigh prolonged then she let slip
Inquiring if I was so inept
To venture on out so ill equipped
With a dead cellphone and money clip
I bent the money clip around
Into a crude blade lest I found
Some conflict as I slunk around
Tip-toeing there without a sound
As darkness weighed upon my brow
Carefully as not to fall down
Where rats were likely to abound
In silence forward I made ground
From car to car I slowly prowled
But no-one coughed nor child howled
Reporting back to my curious wife
We talked about our new found strife
Adjusting to catacombs dark as night
How to adapt to the mole folk’s life
Regardless of outcome luck or tripe
Accepting whatever came down the pipe
We’d not resign as neophytes
But learn to live deprived of light
And not give in but fight the fight
And stepping out there from our car
We search the darkness near and far
Prying at car doors with a tire bar
We pilfered one old kit-kat bar
And three green olives in a jar
Two water bottles and a burnt cigar
Through silence as their shrieks did mar
I fought two rats with an old guitar
Until something cried out from afar
In an eerie timbre most bizarre
Like the mournful wail of big jaguar
In this loathsome pit as our last memoir
We’d declared our own little private war
Defended by keys and a lone crowbar
As exhaustion came in the endless depth
We retreated back to the car and slept
The eternal night had its own precepts
By such darkness we had come to accept
Old wrappers strewn in our unkempt mess
A garbage pit where we couldn’t care less
What belied our base inmost essence
Our wretchedness would describe it best
Night creatures abandoned to the crypt
As our dreams described us as much less
Now finding our way by torch pell mell
On another of forays around that hell
Going on three days we’d begun to smell
A condition we’d slunk to I’m loathe to tell
The heat requiring less clothing as well
As our grimy faces alone would dispel
The luckless monsieur or mademoiselle
As now we’d become more prone to excel
At car burglaries as one might foretell
This larceny drove our primitive selves
More than our common sense would allow
And our purpose once to exit this vessel
Abandoned for mayhem the final knell
At three days forsaken to this pit
I thought we dreamed a dream to wit
Around a bonfire of trash we sat
Roasting a can of cured ham on a spit
We sang out of tune ‘till our voices quit
After eating in silence we put on our hats
And got up to stare at the fire for a bit
Her dress a ‘tatter as no words were said
An old bandanna adorned my head
We wildly waltzed to songs in our heads
Then to and fro we do-si-doed
Between burning rows of trash we’d lit
As dreams are dreamt we’d never know it
So we danced awhile then slept a bit
So as not to bore let our fates be known
Lest yawns do stifle a wearisome moan
In furtherance of a loathsome groan
My story lambasted or harpooned
A dreadful tale sorely impugned
Or the very least mocked and lampooned
For so it was in the dark marooned
We found our second honeymoon
Awaking there in an amorous mood
With fumbling furtive and less crude
Than that first coupling of our youth
Where afterwards as things would go
We slept the sleep of angels woah
And did not wake for hours although
A light then shone upon us yo
A rap on the glass and a bright white light
Did pierce our near eternal night
As I saw out through sheltered eyes
A security guard of considerable size
Discovering us most compromised
Our sweat soaked nakedness unwise
As my spouse woke up and realized
Like teenagers caught out date night
Our awkward state most ill advised
She glared at me with nostrils wide
Assigning with fault who to despise
As I signaled we’d vacate our site
And the guard moved on without a fight
Well the engine started don’t you know
As we eased out of there nice and slow
With sunglasses and our hat brims low
In the bright sunshine and a blinding glow
Two moles at daybreak timid and slow
Squinting our eyes all the way back home
We slunk to the house at just past nine
And slept all day with the curtains down
Never rose ‘till night beyond supine
We dwelled indoors for a week or so
Only venturing out in the evening time
Well so it happened not so long ago
As date nights go a near fiasco
The opera comes and the opera goes
Still we haven’t gone back for Rigoletto
But to this day we still don’t know
If ever to a parking garage we’ll go
-bushman
03/30/2018
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 31, 2018 - 10:44am PT
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Submarine races are cheaper than opera, son.
You're giving Dante a run for his florins with this one. Enjoyed the tale.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 13, 2018 - 02:57pm PT
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Out, Out, Out!!!!!!!! Go!!!!!!!
(in memory of RIP Locker)
Locker, his glassy eyes blinking
Like a pair of crystal clear marbles in ultraviolet light,
Visions filling his vision,
Turning his thoughts to ones and zeros
And his dick to stone.
Bold faced and crude, hard not to like
Out in the sun but not wearing da Brim
While sitting next to the warm glue pot
Watching a hard-on develop between his legs
Made me violently sick
And ruin my newly resoled shoes.
Woe! I am crushed to bits
And my posts are all deleted
Dirt is cast in my face
Even the pariahs chase me off
I see you from a few dimensions removed now:
The empty room here is filling with nobodies.
I later canvassed the area,
Only to find pale ghosts of norwegian and fattrad and gnome,
But Pena's shade was nowhere to be found
With her sore toe.
And, probably still hearing sounds not there
But still too loud to be ignored,
Locker was there, complaining,
"I’m fukking tired of working, man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
With toilet tissue stuck to one of my newly resoled shoes,
I carefully leave the toilet stall,
Now filled with greenish blobs
That move in jellied heaves and rolls
And fart just like fat people making whoopie.
A few people hang around in the lobby of the Extravaganza Casino,
Breathing normally and enjoying the scene.
But Pena exclaims, limping in with a sore toe,
"That’s the same damned raspberry smell I smelled before!"
--UR Gunnadye
Edit: Apologies to die-hard Captain Beefheart fans, both bulbous and tapered. And fast, too.
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Roadie
Trad climber
Bishop, Ca
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Apr 29, 2018 - 01:42pm PT
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I think over again my small adventures, my fears,
These small ones that seemed so big.
For all the vital things I had to get and to reach.
And yet there is only one great thing,
The only thing.
To live to see the great day that dawns
And the light that fills the world
unknown
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 29, 2018 - 01:56pm PT
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Ungnown-un lost but wadering still
( to do it - but only If'n when,
thats the thing with moving
Most likely others would pitch in If pitchin' in will do?
but where, are things
Z will g
now
and
make sense, then the ban hammer came down, I had forgotten
Standplatz !
Erfahren Sie, wo Sie einen Clip ,
auf Ihre Hip legen können!
Was ist das für eine funky Wendung, die du sagst?
Es heißt der Munter, der beste Standplatz.
Learn where to put one clip on yer Hip! and Whats that funky twist you say? Its called the Munter, the best belay.
are all things I was told by a certain set of rusty crusties,
Now what Rgold says is what you hear today
Just remember the AdHD version of KISS
Keep It Stupid Simple
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