Bungalo 89/Cloud 487

I reckon I’ve brought vegetables
And squid to your stone soup
But hope is not a rotting turnip
THAT BUYS HIS WAY TO THE TOP
My Q-W-E-R-T-Y told the exclamation point
To take a vacation, the words are the yelling
And my mind is the same caliber of bullet
Found at the scene of the artistic death
Of an innocent grandmother parakeet

30 second poem. A stream of thought. My mind took a vacation. I was doing sit-ups to kill space-time and it came to me so I wrote it on the laptop. Read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, or LANGUAGE, this writing is a felt tip pen and its ink bleeds on the pages of my mind. My new guitar is named Procka-Zul, after the demon whose soul was ensared in her gloss finish when I used intestines to string my tattered sunburst guitar. Where after it was strung my guitar instantly shed its finish and glossed a deathly black with tears of abalone echoing a weep from the sound hole.