Prajna Garba

if you knew what time it was to hit the strand, rocking collie flowers and handstands all the w a y down to lupos on demagogue street trying to reproach a sorrow is a difficult and lost art fantasmagorically stringent and devoid of melancholy, articulated by the finest of flowery sages rummaging through stages of speaker wires and candy flavored mikes that keep you licking for more, i'm just your chore don't hear me har har chlorine in my lyrics cleans the doubts away, breaks my disease when nothing more to say
you're not a rabbit, i'm not a trap. i'm not a lyricist yet, i'm a prose musician

completely clearing the sauntering shimmy shade of situation. freedom holds my paycheck on bond that will retire when i do to0. clearly the money isn't what i'm glued to my computer for, i'm searching for a landmine to blow away my suspicions of cold cuts being left out a bit too long a bit clearer now not with a sandwhich but stuck alone in the icebox for coolaid centuries

and arhythmic gasses still stir up my spine, you know i havent heard words like these yet, not that i want them to be mine, me sideways coming from different angle, unrecognizable without feature, without presupposition, purely juvenile and hesitatingly delinquient, asunder with smoke and ashes left from the box car that holds our hollow fantasies. i clutch to the rail for fealing the road falling off. i control the airwaves now, no music will be played till your ears are free from dissatisfaction unsanitary fucking over females industry chancelour sanctioned, governor improved, father stands by the door watching just who you let in, cant stand to ever wipe the sin of a theocratic oligarchy from his dinner. and still americans are getting thinner and thinner, i plan to be redeamed once i have lost my bleeding capabilities, until that point my life is a breezy hangover with lots of fringes and i happen to dance on the singed edges, liquifying my asses