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DO YOU HAIKU?

‘The Haiku? Do you do the Haiku?’

No, I do the migraine.

‘What sayeth you? I am unfamiliar with the migraine?’

Thank you for triggering my auto-response pre-programmed
diarrhea gibberish blurb that touches on the factual yet unscientific
nature of my being. Migraine font is no more than a camel toe in
circumference but it has reach beyond palatable measure.
There will be twists dovetailed with excruciating radiculopathy
causing 94.7% of all handcuffed readers to force engage
with mental pain rockets scampering across temporal lobes.
Adjective superhighways will careen into syrupy vortexes
alluding to enlightenment. There will be dead ends
for hairless rail lines seeking Pleasure Polly hug strangles
but alas, scintillating muses will snort and dance much like the air
out of this answer.

‘I have absolutely no speckle of measure as to what soiled diaper by-product you were attempting to hypnotize me with in your last rampage ramble!!’

My dear sir, welcome to Migraine Font.

assumed sensations

The only form of cooling, in heater months, was the trickle spill from assumed sensations whisper spindled off twirling wooden pencils in mental hell bobble cells which probably did not exist.

Competitive chess tournaments on crunchy beaches triggered targeted representatives of homeless tribes. Unrehearsed theatrical productions highlighted animated meltdowns off a beaten path near the salty shorelines of Laguna. Beach pockets provided immediate escape portals in the event any experiment roman candled. This would occur 72% of the time.

Imagination distractions were proven to protect frail hosts from pure brain jelly scramble implosions while I scanned abundant opportunities. Engagement of my focus groups would be central to the success of every covert mission. Imagined or perceived.

Theft was not my prime motivation but I adapted with specialization of my money pull skills during the “seasonal slows”. Inorganic essential inhalation toxins were drip lined into my armory only for enhancement of isolated operations.

Costuming was second nature due to allegiance in remaining authentic to my inbred spirit captains and road crew personnel. Reaching into the land of debauchery was more of a pivot. I was a seductive cross between Captain Kangaroo and a sloshy Cousin Itt.

A combobulated Santa who was failing in the competitive grip of life achievement categories while maintaining a semblance of restrained joy because victory was in laughter or a pull of Jameson, but mostly laughter.

Existing under a sophisticated offshore hypnosis trance, I was forced to believe prior to total decimation of specific abilities within our own individual decaying mortal body we possess a mucous vessel super charged with critical intel.

My bionic sales bravado proved itself as a pushy agitator when cornering strung out vampire zipper frowns. Broken and bruised, I stuck around due to my commitment to the role I had created.

All mid-to-upper Vector Clearance Coordinators (VCC) share a duty to extract or scramble personal attachments any paying customer has prior to them seeking expensive passage for the second act in our mystical life journey. This particular grift was not a simple grift to relay due to technical language barriers.

Engage, enrage, then followed with trap. This had been my go to operational technique for seven vested years while surveilling tweaker hop heads on perpetual highs. These symbiotic derelicts infiltrated communities while preying upon the middle to upper class for decades, so obligations fell on my hairy loins with revenge-rewarding this clan of humans for their tactical assault on livelihoods.

Ultimate sacrifices were made by me. Ruling as Serpent Lord over the Dungeon of Effortless Misery, which was one tick up from the Dungeon of Misery, I feigned insanity for the greater benefits of civility.

Everything would make sense in the intricate journals, diaries, and spreadsheets which could be impressive once I initiate pre-production for preparation of myself for those laborious tasks.

By absorption of the mentally toxic sun cowboys into my trademarked web of psycho analysis-type healing I have formed demonic alliances which probably should have remained undisturbed.

There have been notable cranky voices, throbbing in my head space, advising all personalities of the terminology stickered as “going native”.

If the sandy tramps festering in my tragic kingdom continue with their hunting and gathering tasks, I will proceed with subterranean relocation plans to Zanzibar by 2038.

Whenever I reverse engineer the spectacle, which is me, confusion surmounts so I meditate on the luscious wind spittle drifting across calloused fingertips supporting whiskey saturated sunshine as I am hotboxed into Zanzibar.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Berthed from mischievous leprechauns near technicolor shadow lands surrounding Honah Lee, Theodore Wallbanger rides mysterious sparkle railcars bursting with crunchy cotton candy clouds dispatched from slippery erotic massage vixens who rage pillow laugh hourly within a splintered transportation module that screams along butterscotch wonder tracks forming vibrations for audiences across Sugar Hill Mountain.

Image generated on Magic Studio