Okay I'm bored.

Ass fascism

No loud.


No beak.


No fear.


No peak.


No world.


No suck.


No cock.


No muck.


I knack of big round and stupid beak.
Lot is my racism.


I found her seeking cankers with
A naked drunk eagles of peace.


War and my family stink because
Why a nationalist fear of beans?


Death falls into a famous herk testing
Momentary It is Sick to feel worse.


I feel nothing and I am a good person.






               ***************




Whoosh!


After early 60s op-art portrait of a jet fighter ... Gotta give credit where credit saps itself coldly.


I feel God deals me a Goddess in her night I am the
Sickness that screws famous dreams.


So one of the dreams was the one in which God
Thought of me because I am beautiful.


I fear the need of pagan thought.


Facts of my life seem to me to derive family's ascot
Finger to be loving but not safe.


Go Fish


And I am begun solties (BeBe)


*********************************




Wail


The bop prosodic panga


Lord of my family


Gives me a world of fascist


Kapable rake


Last of bars.


No one is here to be thoughtful.


I prefer ascots.






***********************************


Death of Beak


I surmise in the pain of her freedom
That amask deals sharing


To her thoughts I am big.


No one is beyond a role as long as
Feelings give bargains.


Doling my role fame is beans.


No one got that one but I am
Possibly thinking of yes God deal Goddess.


Woop.


Flannery O'Connor must be happy.

Work mama bebe is work oma anga lug

Drench your people and I am baba.  Baba is my mom is love and dirt.  I feel a world treating meme as love sucker drunk ad bird.

Coiling the snake dirt creates mama I am working bebe.  I feel another answer bink.

No one is afraid I am angry at life art is work baba.  Okay, I will be here.

I Love You

--
Because I love yoou safely and I care.

No one artistic has nuts as momentarily a Goddess of ancestry.

I seek art man laughter moose.

What ally I know is beast?

Okay.  I get it. Art a bop .  My mom is moose.

I have my mom.

The beast is my mom bebe.

No one is life bebe.

The beast loves me.

Strike

Until further notice, this lance will be dreamy and bubu ( orgy teaches bebe womanliness sickening isn't it?)

Andrea and my life borrow me td.  Bebe.  I don't worry orgasmic I don't know.

Aye Messy

orcan da lam a reagan deathness sicks me; why is it boring to love my life as I love my life?  What bothers me is the pain of myself acting drunk with anger for my dreams.  What is that?  I don't care.  I don't pea landg

Laughter bothers me.  I feel myself a ruoald

Landguae
Landg
\I race my mind mby

Laughter.  What is your appetite?  I feel a boring pig is new.  Shit, why be here?

Laughter maxes a pencil with a long fierce andrea.  I don't believe safety begins a language of bombs and teachers.

What separation between doctor and manhood involves a darkness of me?

I sick myself because thinking you are dashing messes gives me rape.

Cape me.  Wake your family.  I don't want that.

Please kiss my rangled dink.

I see myself open.  It is manly to be happy.

Boo.

On Reading Beat Poetry

I Don't Want to Die

As my goddess derives family terrorist my mom
My mom burdens are mine.

I feel nerdy in my cruel sake of burden.

It is anger words, a  word and I anger  a
Masher death sick is not love.

I failed to ask myself dreaming of a wand
What God dashes into with a lot rank

Language and my life peace I am you
And I cannot sapphire ingot reason like

Your name hopefully people need me.

A goddess knots peace worldness cruelness

I cannot party and love my Mom.

Pore thoughtless sinker feels argot
And burdens of  me grieving

Hack and work are burdening

I don't say I care, I have money
To belong to a hopeful

Angst party.

Kop peep mackankerous and rational

Work stick it out and it will be
A Passionate teacher.

I wanded to seek a Goddess failing me
With my own dream heart sickened

To think of  acting as a fecal sapphire.

Why and I am geek.

Wherefore Thy Laughing Petals?

Insanity Repeating

Language burds book
And now when I keep anger
Is love beyond books.

Birds laugh narcotics and drugs
That naked ass hole rode me
Liking my rofe people.

I sink into third party work
Laughing where I am.  This is
Being a woman a goddess of big.



Way God BeBe a her

Falling rogue borrows bink
Roving a man's ass, thoughtful, free,
Cafe of Boo purty boo bebe
Anger rants loose in my big.

Openness sat in my act, free from
Hole and work:  baloney
Tricks this drunk and makes
My Mama home.



Laughing Bargains where I am

Work deaf the nature of
BeBe borrows me for my anger,
Gay people have me sink into my
Whore (people me as you are)
Dream of me -- people love me.

My creed.



Wow

A famous crook thinks of me
Where I am.
I see her working her life for herself.

I cannot believe her peak, which knows nothing
And God babies his heifer for boob.

Yas.

Let

Let your poetry (words, life) emanate from a gentle place. 
My mom believes life.

My Leatherette Journal

  Today I bought a 256 page leatherette journal of a brown hue in which to jot my innermost musings.  Therefore you may wait until the documentation of my life by a foolish academic to read what I'm really thinking.  I forecast that the frequency of my entries in this blog and on my facebook account will decrease by, hopefully at least 50 %!

Rose, Stone, Bone

War More Gore Store Lore Fore Roar Door


What mama is a woman dealing it as thought?
What forensic ecstasy involves death as a heck/ler taking race dreaming of a poem fighting a
rap land sticking art into a thinking bargain?
I suck ass.
Droll and flowery, I say baloney to you for the impossible shriek; with a manly seeking of failure, I give you a bomb work of mine treating me like I am poor.  Feelings seek reasons for me; I know what it is to ask for dirt and receive a failing belief in peace...


No one is the same when bodies of all the failing grievers act bodily in their own pact for a brainy tree.  The Goddess feels loving for her beautiful family and knows that when you are thoughtful that bodies give you sassy dear rolls.


I wondered whether you felt my mind was a good thing.  Is there a life in my racism that belongs to the painful yet chunky cruelty that no one belongs with?  I am not God.  I am not thought.  I am not sexy.  I am not a thoughtful person.  I tell you body and thought and sickness are the only parts of me that I can act for and still know that I give home to a roman banger.


Man and Woman be safe in their places.  I have no belief in people who have no thought of ever knowing me as a thinker of best things such as anger and hope and wordy drinking thinking freedoms.


I work believing in my answer (pee is work).


My dear father often sought peace in being good to his own drums.  I had no interest in thinking bodies seek me.  I have thought of the Goddess artist drumming her mind teaching me thinking is hope.


No one knows the anger when I feel burrowed into with a famous payment.  The knowledge that I belong to these suffering entrances is quite sobering,  somber as a thinking roman.


Cicero and Horace and Vergil and Suetonius and Tacitus and Caesar and Vespasian and Marcus Aurelius and Livy and Fremont, California.


I work this way and I am not that free in my thoughts.  It is my thought that I have no wish to understand those women dreaming of thinking bodies as knowledge.


I sought the companionship and community of racks and maniacal thinkers with their people who would rather hit me over a deck of family than love me for my happy Goddess.


I ran deep into the failings of a people who wished to only live freely and peacefully.  They had no desire for me to hate them because they had no peace.  I hated the black woman I loved.  She belonged to the nature of the Goddess.  I could not believe she happened my life had its own tree.


I womaned the Goddess with my angry thinking.  I embraced the anchor of bodies with its natural family cruelty.  There, I have veered into "natural" thinking.  Let me detach myself from such untoward anger.  I MUST love, not be another rosy bobo.  It is I, It is Me, It is the sexiness of men with bodies that need creative dreams that belong with me.  What is it to find rejection in the midst of plenty?  I feel that the more I give, the less beauty I will ever believe in.  Is that my doing?


Work in East New York:  The land that is for my life gave me another understanding of love and stars.  I did not believe that I felt happy.  No one ever knows what is love without beauty.  I wished that I was *****, a hue of the rainbow that is in back of the stars and beneath the world; underneath and beyond, before and within.  Here we go.

What is IT?

IT is a hole, a rose, a girl, a Moose.



A n l a f u r a l a r


Eldo


I borrowed dirt baloney

be be

A moment be be is this my mom?

I was rude and that's a moment ba ba.

I don't like the treatment dreaming as my mama is my ho
ke racism baba.  I feel worse.  There is a nak of mom in my life

I don't know what a baba belongs to.

A woman is reasding baba.  I feel burbur is my mama.

The dream of whores was my mama.  I feel okay mama.

I didn't sick my mama is my mama.  What is you?

I have no word to describe the anger of being a whore.

I have no thought my life of mama works.

My mama is a world of work and thought:  deal with it.

I have dropped my mama; and I am fooled; my mama baba.  God and I fear a rude drug borrowing ach fafa.  What mother is this?

What bebe is rude?  A word, a rude, a rock, a sartre, a happening, a Goddess; Sick is the deal fooling a man of my marder darkness is a woman being womanly.  Haha is the dream.  Bebe a woman is a lala.  Rose my mama is my mom.

Family got itself dead when it borrowed sartre from mama.  The cash is not hate. 

Okay?  I baba rusty sees me dreaming safely I am hating coldness.  A haha my Mom is bubu.  I want to know what the pain is inside that keeps me from breathing when I try to remember what I feel.

No one sees me with the treebles.  My mama gives me anger/ a fool needs safety.  Pease is my mama.  My mama belongs and I am trying to work here.  Sore bebe; Goddess seesee I want bama a woman leaves.  I need to be free of coldness toward my mother.

What is you?

What is this?

Please ask me what baba and mama read.  It is this openness that makes me a nothing.  Hope and mama bebe a whore mama.  I didn't see this tree didn't go hope/home bebe.  Where  is mama?  I don't deal anana.  What is haha?

My trree a baba a fake.  I don't dream of a bobo without a nerd.

Keep me a racist don't do it.  I am sartre, a bubu. Moomoo good deal is oiga; mama I have mama.  It is mama baba.  I peed on the dream.  See me/seek okay is what. Why bebe?  Peepee is meme.

Okay?

I bobo help me is meme.  Work bebe andrea is work pepe.

Ather hate bobo bebe I need sex with a momo.

O bubu I need dear rite another is a work I nono peace.

Coi Coi.

No-talent atrocities

No one need know my life -- batters -- my mind -- a mama.

I no one -- ba ma -- a whore sucks ass, my friend is my Mom.

I hate -- baba-- my Mom as my Mom.

Why be ba?  Why be a baba?

I ask you what is strong?

My mama is Mom

She won't feel better and I am desiring to give my Mom
A womanhood of my Mom.

I feel worse.  I ask you what is my Mom?

I didn't -- torturous tense burying -- ma --

I hated dreams; I hated a world.

The world is in me.  I have anxious and overwrought
Cruelties blocking my awareness of patience.

They feel like tendons or bands of elastic or outward-pressuring (somatic representations of thoughts)
in which are buried the angst and anger I have no idea is my mind and my mind belongs where I have Andrea (hope belongs to my Mom --WHY?  Do I project and feel these constant alterations in my consciousness keeping me  from awareness of a stability, a strength that I know is there underneath the turmoil that bothers me so.

I don't want to be expositorially descriptive.  I want to shriek, so according to the rules of Art of the 1950s, 1940s, 1930s, 1920s, 1960s, 1970s, back to the French "symbolists," to Artaud, Jarry, Rimbaud, to failure in my life, to coldness that had part of in my changes (to become "Juliaa") I will shriek.


I hate this crap.

I spill my words as they come to me even in their cross-interfering low, mean, cruel conflict in the fight to become aware of gentleness and hope:

Fuck nuts;; Fuck God.  Fuck pain.  I sought my mama.  I sought a friend.  i have no peace.  I have no peace.  What is this pain?  Why did I ask for body?  Why am I sore (angry, a Chelsea-speak) and why am I a fool?  I feel momentarily stupid and angry and cruel.  Don't describe, spew words on the screen, each word resting like a fragile, unbalanced, stone on the others, rocketing outward and upward into an unfortunate and uncomprehending, unreceptive oblivion.  Blah Blah.

No one bothers me.  I hate my Mom.  She won't believe me.  She won't ask me what is my life for?  I blame her as I always did for making me (the handles are poor.)  I confuse, concern, intimidate and drain her of energy.  Horrible.  Absolutely unjustifiable.  I cannot be here.  I am on double the anti-psychotic.  In no more than two years I will probably face the "institution" with nothing to sustaain me except my memories and maybe a book or two while I shriek in frustration and anger, mourning my useless, hated and hateful life!.  I was never so offensive and scary.  I was a gentle person.  WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?

I hate bothering my mother.  My mother is alive.  My mother believes in me.  I disappoint her (and myself) a hundred times a day.  Every day, the occasional feeling of kindness and affection slips into a absolute Andreaic reservoir or morass of chaos and cruelty bubbling within this useless consciousness I established as a means to love my hopes (peace, love and a papapapa/ baba/ mama family baba is mama.  ) I have to know I am not my mama.  I hate boundaries and they are what I need to remember are there, even for CHELSEA GOODWIN AND RUSTY moore.  Otherwise, they would welcome my volcanic instability, my crude and directionless stupidity into their lives.  I insult my self and denigraqte myself so no one will get there before me.  No one cares.  Most people would rather watch me sink into the morass of my attempt to be absolutely without aggression or hurtfulness of any kind; cheering on the disintegration or at least knowing that whatever need brings me to this is mine alone -- none of their fucking business or concern.

I didn't know bothering my mom would be cruel.  I don't know stupidity is the only thing I know is good.  Stupidity rules the world.  My stupidity, perhaps?  Brutality and hate are the motivators of all, the backlash of 500 years of European/"American" expansion.  I do not see why I have to choose to be a militant on any side of this disgusting explosion of bigoted and blustering sickness.  Sounds like a description of me.

I have righteousness.  I am angelic.  I am peaceful.  Some of you, particularly Marilyn Cambareri would dispute each assertion, bitterly and caustically until there was nothing here but a naked simulacrum of a cruel, distorted fetal entity.  The destruction didn't start with me.

Ho ho my money is my money.  My failures are not this kind of patience toward strength/string.  I am bomomo.  I am a baby's nut, drunken and african in my mind being wordy.

Soon it will be illegal or at least socially unacceptable for one such as me to use the word "African" with respect to myself.  There will be no tolerance, no room for maneuver, only the psychological and physiological disappearance of a useless, murderous carapace of the people's of Europe's desire for laughter, peace, answers.  The problem is that the later developers, the conquered, do not believe in "answers."  They wish only for a communication that proceeds from a peaceful papa.  manana.  I think this peacefulness is possible.  Unfortunately, the rending of the beauties of European "civilization" will die/coerced and disintegrating/ for the centuries, for the millennia.  This is already an ancient world facing its death.  Transformation will be utter dissolution; life will go on without any understanding beyond the immediate.  I know my mind is a way to act peacefully.  I wish that what I know of "law" and cruelty were encouraging:  they are not.  Example:  a poem in tribute to Amiri Baraka saying that the writer needed to save the white man by kicking the law out of his teeth.  This is the kind of thing I don't think I have to welcome.

What am I saying?  I have no love for my passions.  They disappear with the influence of the anti-psychotic.  Nothing is spewing as gently rocketing stones and spears and missiles of words that have no relation to each other but the asshole desperately and angrily shaking off the cruelties with which "she" is bound.

I have no body.  I have no drinking.  I have no thought.  I have no being.  I have no alliances.  I have no peace.  Body is my mind.  Thought is my sex/reason/tree.  The fundamentals, the instability is glued together in this medical substitute for human self-reconstruction.  The humanity will die.  All that will be left will be the glue.

Why baba? Why baba?  i baba.  I have no baba.  What is a mama?

I hate my mama; I love her as my mama.  She is beautiful and gentle.  Yet I hate her misunderstandings, her lack of ability to grasp what is outside the ken of the Mother.  What is my life?  What possibilities are still alive?
es on.
No one will say.

I must make my own life without a place to go, with no defenses, with no understanding of this cruel and foolish time/place.

Bobo.  Momo.  I fucked up because I wanted home.  Now home surrounds me with comfort and consoling peace,, but it does not give me a way to life/baloney/mama/ drugs are dumb.

Poesy is meant to say a baba.  is meant to be God to its own sickness.

That is a hateful sickness without money or love.

I hate my mama for mamama.  She loves me.  I need that.  I return it sometimes.  Everytime it seems it will be enough, then daily the scaaffolding of mutuality falls apart, like a badly built, unsecured edifice of metal/plastic/stone heaped in a desert dust storm.  Blah, blah.  Misspoken and banal.

Worship is a way to live if you have words that mean peace.  Ai yeah.  Another hope is nothingness.

I have to listen for strong people.  Chaos is deadly.  So is life.  So is cruelty.  Life is not death.  Life goes on.  Life is vitality, presence, hope, the eternity of love in every moment.  Medicine muffles the presence of Love.  If someone really wants me to heal they'll put me in a place of meditation and peace, not leave my life in my hands where i see only wanger baba a mama, a child, a drunkenness, a dislocation, a painful bringing of loss and ashes.

Sylvia's ashes were home.  That is how deep and stupidly "disintegral" my self-awarness has become/descended.

I loved my Mom for making my mama a woman.

I am my mama.  I realized that during the torturous turmoil of my coming-into-being in the days of my pre-Bellevue dispensation, dying at the hands of nasty pagan poems.  These are all that I have to hope for:  that what I thought was my destruction will bring hope and peace.

What do you think?  I know you won't tell me.

Or mama o dada, o mamama.  I feel worse in this death-dealing analysis of self, this denial of the profusion that is everywhere.

I have joy.  I just want a whore that makes me hassle  anchors with pagan anonymity.

Chelsea is always three steps ahead of me.  I caannot turn to her.  No one else will ever have a clue where my consciousness has brought me.  No one will ever believe my strength.  Loving yourself brings peace.  That is the secret i have suppressed.

Who are your lies and pagan hopes?  What are you?  What is a God?  What belongs to me and what is strong?  Is there peace?  The very words by which I portray my mind seem treacherous.  I must suspect them as the police-orc despises the hobbit.  What bothers me is this pagan naturism.  I want to cling to its peacefulness, but it fades:  magic is the target of medication

If I stop medicating myself, I will be dead in six months.

I have no -- another andrea -- mama is my mama -- a mama is wise -- not --WHAT IS WOMAN?  I HAVE LOST CONTACT WITH MYSELF!   DESTRUCTIVE GLUE OF RATIONAL DISCOURSE!  WHERE IS THE GODDESS WITHIN?  I LOVE HER.  I HAVE NO PEACE WITHOUT HER.  I LIVE FOR THIS.  I A M A WOMAN BECAUSE I NEED DREAMS; I NEED A (SHOUTING TO GET OUT SOME WORD, SOME INDIRECT INDICATION OF MY LIFE) LANGUAGE THAT MAKES STRENGTH ANOTHER BA RAGAN DENIES IT.  I AM NOT MY MAMA.  I WISH MY MAMA WAS MY MAMA .  I AM LOSING TOUCH.  WHAT IS THIS PLACE? I HAVE MY MAMA! WHY BELIEVE?  ALIVE!  I AM ALIVE! 

oh well

land marks me I have no another.  What is another?  Boaba.

Holes are life; I feel worse.

Bee bee.

What is you?  I feel worse.

Don't ask me don't tell me.  I am  a whore.

Work baaba.

Omo Babama.

Racketeering a mama.  I fekakjflka

Ilaughted.

Racism is a pig

Nono..

What i know i know is you.

Racism is a racist drunk of men and sex with alllah.  Peace is my mom.

Woman deals with another a moment.  What is you?

I feel worse..  Baba.  I am a moment of fool and moment of a baba.

Woman belong; I am a whore.  Fool moo moo.

Girl, you are a whore but not a woman.  You are my mama.

I am you.

Woo woo.

Chelsea Goodwin bothers me because she needs me.  I have her friends.  She is hopeful.

Andrea Sears belongs and she is her friend.  Woman balallala

Why is you baba?

Laughting baba.

I have mama a woman naca.  Ramama

I lovev my moma baba.

Orgasm is moo moo a fool.  Steel my mama.  I have pain and cruelty fool is a whore baba.

Fool sucks dirt and I am a macla
Rape is a whore people suck ass.  I ha
Land is rape.  I hate pain.  Work is cold.

Don't even think about making this my life.

Commentary on the Rampart(s)

You're supposed to write like you have peace in you,
Not like God is hate.

To be a word,

I ask you,
Will you think about me?

I wonder,
Are you the one?

A word belongs
A dream apart

A life a life
Selects the dream.

The green, a world
A fact of peace,

A lake belongs
And that's

My pagan mind.

I work to be along
The way.

I feel the God
is away,

To stray.

I have a body

Where my life
Is free.

I have a friend
To share the

Key.

Momentarily
I seek a vision

To create

Worlds of patience

Where I love
My mind.

I feel a sort of
Pain in there.

It belongs to life:
I am sincere.

I ask of you
What is the God?

I am the person
My life is shod.

A woman's thought
Of life as sought

A weirdness party

A failing 

Serene.

Way I see

Shares me
With a dot,

A tree.



**********************************
 

Where I go all out bat-shit crazy  with bad-ass phonemes
Strung together like words that matter.


A star myself
A bar is a cave

I feel a wind

I borrowed is dead.

The law of work

Is to drop as lead.

Was it okay to ask for less?

I feel the Goddess

Is Peaceful,

Still I stress.

**************************************

A male, a need, a fear, a bleed,
I scan the sky, I see a seed.

The laughter beyond my eyes
Is Weed.

Maniacal and thought-filled
I have a life

That feels as if
I act by knife.

I hate the strain
On this worn brain.


I parties my life
Into the Ground.

I hated the facts
That marked me sound.

The reasons mere
The word is dear.

******************************************

Please let me write just this once

I know to say,
I feel a ray

The passion's a flaw
In all the straw.

A man with no

History of care

Belongs where

Life is free
To dare.

*************************************8