A Potential Guide's Tireless Clasp

catchy experimental Shakespear spoken word noise horror circus

V3.5

To hilltop house we go, where music flows, From windows, water’s song and bubbles grow. In forest deep, we fell the mighty elm, Yet messages remain beyond our realm. On moon, a giant stands, Tribune’s delight, A factory of wine, a wondrous sight. The goose to lake returns, as shots do ring, While elders sing of fish and secrets bring.

In Rough Kung Pow Boom Doom, where men do break, And batteries are forged for future’s sake. What we uphold, the elders’ songs defy, In Tug Popper’s drive, excitement’s nigh. Factory floors where dollars break men’s backs, Guitarist’s tune on moon’s dark side attracts. In time’s clouds, wine glass rests on edge so fine, Can sandwich form without bread’s future sign?

In history’s flow, moon’s scientists create, A condenser of time, a wondrous state. To hill’s melody, we move and dance, Earth’s circle struggles, flowers’ chance. With music’s beat, we dance the chicken’s way, In moonlit mood, we dance till break of day. Farm’s marble sparkles, dollar storms do rage, Salsa-town’s library, juice house of age.

From bunkers, factory homes are sold with pride, In Fat City, where souls in dollars bide. Midst this discourse, meaning’s lost in time, A can of mayo rots, a silent crime. In shoes of love, ancients’ puzzles grasp, Factory’s gold and baboon’s tireless clasp. To hilltop house, where war’s dead lie in rows, We stomp our boots, no haste in what we know.

Without the Grail, we lose in tunnel’s gloom, On mountain’s peak, our faces merge in bloom. With friends we dine by river’s gentle stream, Fish dance below, a silent, flowing dream. Yet noise from hilltop house we do not ken, This place we go when life does reach its end. Dark moon’s potential guides us to the sun, In light of understanding, we are one.

2125/7500

In ancient lore, a crimson rope we spy, Yet bands of yellow, green, and red do fly. Not 'neath the bridge where puzzles old reside, But with the gremlins 'neath our beds they hide. Fat City, full of fat, no soul did cry, For hearts of blazing birds did soar on high. From mountains hope descends with poisons vile, Encased in green God’s cocoon all the while. To hilltop house we go, where music flows, From windows, water’s song and bubbles grow. In forest deep, we fell the mighty elm, Yet messages remain beyond our realm. On moon, a giant stands, Tribune’s delight, A factory of wine, a wondrous sight. The goose to lake returns, as shots do ring, While elders sing of fish and secrets bring. In Rough Kung Pow Boom Doom, where men do break, And batteries are forged for future’s sake. What we uphold, the elders’ songs defy, In Tug Popper’s drive, excitement’s nigh. Factory floors where dollars break men’s backs, Guitarist’s tune on moon’s dark side attracts. In time’s clouds, wine glass rests on edge so fine, Can sandwich form without bread’s future sign? In history’s flow, moon’s scientists create, A condenser of time, a wondrous state. To hill’s melody, we move and dance, Earth’s circle struggles, flowers’ chance. With music’s beat, we dance the chicken’s way, In moonlit mood, we dance till break of day. Farm’s marble sparkles, dollar storms do rage, Salsa-town’s library, juice house of age. From bunkers, factory homes are sold with pride, In Fat City, where souls in dollars bide. Midst this discourse, meaning’s lost in time, A can of mayo rots, a silent crime. In shoes of love, ancients’ puzzles grasp, Factory’s gold and baboon’s tireless clasp. To hilltop house, where war’s dead lie in rows, We stomp our boots, no haste in what we know. Without the Grail, we lose in tunnel’s gloom, On mountain’s peak, our faces merge in bloom. With friends we dine by river’s gentle stream, Fish dance below, a silent, flowing dream. Yet noise from hilltop house we do not ken, This place we go when life does reach its end. Dark moon’s potential guides us to the sun, In light of understanding, we are one.

0/500