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Ranting Like You Won't Believe by Ray Printer Friendly

is it daytime yet? shit no! don't even play like that, actin' like the sun's there and it's time to take action, take responsibility. it's the night motherfucker, the time to run with the wolves and howl at the moon and envision sausage mcmuffins that you'll never be around to taste.

that harmonica sound carries all the way to the clouds with your mad nastiness, and our claps don't need to be in time, son. they what, wanna try to teach us? shit on that kind of teaching--the instruction booklet for life comes filled with skinned knees and broken hearts and salty tears that get ever so sweet over time. but hey you know what else? what else is laughs that make your stomach hurt they're so hard, and smiles that tickle your ears they're so wide, and beauty that makes you feel like your heart will explode, and love that makes you feel like you’ll melt into a pool of rained-on cotton candy.

eye-crossing impersonations, hey hey hey, did you see what i did there, and we all just look at him because we saw what he did there and we weren't impressed. he's no trumpet player, remember that trumpet player? who was that trumpet player, and where did he go? because that note he hit where every rum bottle in the joint exploded, that was nifty as a motherfucker.

fucked in the earholes, but your shadow's still dancing, it's rippin' shit up, dawg, the DJ keeps screaming it. rippin' shit up, dawg, we be rippin' shit up, dawg, look at her out there, rippin' shit up, dawg. and your shadow, it's still rippin' shit up, dawg, but your face is telling a different story. it's hollow and thin, and your eyes tell me that they don't have much longer. somewhere between shot number five and shot number six, things went awry. this shit, this THUB, THUB, THUB, buh buh, THUB THUB THUB, this music for maniacs, this isn't what you need at the moment.

what it seems like is we've all turned into that deadweight you're supposed to throw out of the airplane when it won't get high enough to clear the mountain. when you're sinkin', you don't ask an anchor for help.

this cutscene of your life, you need the classical music playing softly in the background while someone tells you how you're throwing it all away, while someone tells you it's not too late. but who you know like that, is there somebody?

the sentiment is wasted because what are we, pansy assholes?

scream it, motherfucker, scream your freedom and your rush, because if we can't worship you for your giant balls, how can we idolize you?

a woman? nevermind that, if you're a woman, you gotta have bigger balls than ANYONE, and you gotta swing 'em like the kinetic motion powers some sort of futurisic power plant that don't give a shit at all. Power my 1976 Cadillac all the way from NYC to TJ, darlin', with your swingin' nuts, because she's lurking:

the mother of the four horsemen. my humanity test. is this humanity? am i a part of it, or will i drown her in her own blood? a test. like that.

when the explosion comes, it comes fast and hard, and what will be left is confused faces, possible covered with a sticky substance. and the cheering will only solidify the nightmare.


posted 9/28/08


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