Happy Nuke Year!
CANINE cohorts, bomb sniffing dogs, top dogs, lap dogs, bitches and riches, poodles and noodles, wolves and wolverines, garcias y gracias, all ye multitudes gone to the dogs… daemon est deus inversus… lend your ears and its maxed up hearing range to everyone who shoos away blessings, does blasts instead on New Year’s eve.
So equipped with such a capacity well over 16 times than an average human’s, every firecracker blast would thunder like a jet’s sonic boom or nuclear warhead detonation doting on inside their heads… and cause more than neural, locomotor plus hormonal imbalance… total dysfunction in those imbeciles—we have lots and lots of ‘em living up to the tab, Filipinoise… uh, LOL!
Fiat! Fiat! Fiat!
Who needs anti-tetanus shots when the best shots don’t come in syringes on the eve of another year?
Shot, come… shot, come… shot, come… (Bedlam in bed as temblors and aftershocks ensue, moans come… come…come aplenty, blissful blessed peace and physical release settles like breeze-borne feather.)
We wish you Filipinoise another hapless nuke year…
No explanation needed for those who can grasp… no explanation can be grasped by those who can’t even get a grip on memory or mammary or get a hold on what’s to jack off since their tools won’t work anyway, mwa-ha-ha-ha-haw!
Those who can grasp can make out the sighs of roses unfurling petals.
Nah, mon amour, a fresh year isn’t a sheaf of months and days on a calendar that we’ll fill in as a ditch digger does before laying drain pipes…
A new year is virgin parchment, an empty sheet, a taut gesso spread canvass so acquiescent to brushstrokes, the beloved shed of every veil and vulnerable to every gesture of tenderness, the fragrant silence of a performance hall before a symphony orchestra rolls out an earful.
No need for prophecies and tendencies to be foretold, on needful silence of virgin parchment, spill it out… spell out what needs to be done… fulfill your future and your own prophecies. Some solemn silence really needed to do that.
You don’t set fire to virgin parchment, or do you?
My first grandchild got herself a sketch pad and a box of crayons… and with that, she set out to fill every empty page with colors, every color that she awkwardly wields would find their mark on such emptiness.
And she would fill her days with lots of color and fragrance of rainbows—no drabness, no dullness—in those sheaves of days and dates…
Let those who wish to fill their days with smog and stench, fire and filth choke on all that garbage, so mote it be!
CANINE cohorts, bomb sniffing dogs, top dogs, lap dogs, bitches and riches, poodles and noodles, wolves and wolverines, garcias y gracias, all ye multitudes gone to the dogs… daemon est deus inversus… lend your ears and its maxed up hearing range to everyone who shoos away blessings, does blasts instead on New Year’s eve.
So equipped with such a capacity well over 16 times than an average human’s, every firecracker blast would thunder like a jet’s sonic boom or nuclear warhead detonation doting on inside their heads… and cause more than neural, locomotor plus hormonal imbalance… total dysfunction in those imbeciles—we have lots and lots of ‘em living up to the tab, Filipinoise… uh, LOL!
Fiat! Fiat! Fiat!
Who needs anti-tetanus shots when the best shots don’t come in syringes on the eve of another year?
Shot, come… shot, come… shot, come… (Bedlam in bed as temblors and aftershocks ensue, moans come… come…come aplenty, blissful blessed peace and physical release settles like breeze-borne feather.)
We wish you Filipinoise another hapless nuke year…
No explanation needed for those who can grasp… no explanation can be grasped by those who can’t even get a grip on memory or mammary or get a hold on what’s to jack off since their tools won’t work anyway, mwa-ha-ha-ha-haw!
Those who can grasp can make out the sighs of roses unfurling petals.
Nah, mon amour, a fresh year isn’t a sheaf of months and days on a calendar that we’ll fill in as a ditch digger does before laying drain pipes…
A new year is virgin parchment, an empty sheet, a taut gesso spread canvass so acquiescent to brushstrokes, the beloved shed of every veil and vulnerable to every gesture of tenderness, the fragrant silence of a performance hall before a symphony orchestra rolls out an earful.
No need for prophecies and tendencies to be foretold, on needful silence of virgin parchment, spill it out… spell out what needs to be done… fulfill your future and your own prophecies. Some solemn silence really needed to do that.
You don’t set fire to virgin parchment, or do you?
My first grandchild got herself a sketch pad and a box of crayons… and with that, she set out to fill every empty page with colors, every color that she awkwardly wields would find their mark on such emptiness.
And she would fill her days with lots of color and fragrance of rainbows—no drabness, no dullness—in those sheaves of days and dates…
Let those who wish to fill their days with smog and stench, fire and filth choke on all that garbage, so mote it be!
Comments