I just bloomed a song that is eight minutes too long. The song runs about seven minutes fifty seconds in total. Airplay combined with advertisements adds an extra eight minutes thirty seconds.
This is not fucking math class, and this is not a poem. This is not one of those "this is not a poem" poems... Those witty sparks have since long been singed out. This unedited improvised dribble is not that of art, not accidentally left shitty for the pure concept of abstract expression. It will not be recited in the non-beatnik generation nor adored by coffee shop, expensive hat wearing elitists. The little drummer boy played too damn slow, but the little drummer boy has no damn relation with these words at all. Erase the last sentence... There, now the last sentence has no true involvement, besides the gap that this current sentence will fulfill. But nobody will read this, and one will not bitch, if one only skips this sentence: Freelancers are a dying breed because novelty gimmick writers seem to breed and constantly feed to one's host beyond a tall talk show desk. This will not be read, but proclaimed the best literature inspired straight-to-video flick by MGM.
What kind of images does this text-clustered babble bring up to one's mind? Surely your childhood closet of crosshatched memories and yellow sweaters will jump out from beyond the endless space that pulls and pulls further into non-ending realms of rationalizations with memory.
If you subtract the idea of rhythm, then is it justifiable to say that every single noise you have heard in your entire life has been all a part of one giant song without pattern? Or is that just some philosophical asshole question brought up to cardboard-cover up any true subject matter to this writing?
This is not fucking math class, and this is not a poem. This is not one of those "this is not a poem" poems... Those witty sparks have since long been singed out. This unedited improvised dribble is not that of art, not accidentally left shitty for the pure concept of abstract expression. It will not be recited in the non-beatnik generation nor adored by coffee shop, expensive hat wearing elitists. The little drummer boy played too damn slow, but the little drummer boy has no damn relation with these words at all. Erase the last sentence... There, now the last sentence has no true involvement, besides the gap that this current sentence will fulfill. But nobody will read this, and one will not bitch, if one only skips this sentence: Freelancers are a dying breed because novelty gimmick writers seem to breed and constantly feed to one's host beyond a tall talk show desk. This will not be read, but proclaimed the best literature inspired straight-to-video flick by MGM.
What kind of images does this text-clustered babble bring up to one's mind? Surely your childhood closet of crosshatched memories and yellow sweaters will jump out from beyond the endless space that pulls and pulls further into non-ending realms of rationalizations with memory.
If you subtract the idea of rhythm, then is it justifiable to say that every single noise you have heard in your entire life has been all a part of one giant song without pattern? Or is that just some philosophical asshole question brought up to cardboard-cover up any true subject matter to this writing?
