JUNK-CHIEFS O’ER MAUI CLIFFS
Richard Joseph Stephan · Thursday, January 16, 2020
------------------- #MinionsWelcome -------------------
From the streets and alleys, side and backroads, boulevards and avenues of the 7 continents
Seven of them in the midst of random variation of the human DNA and its tiny constituents
Full Monty or just a naked beast of burden to clothe and keep clear of offensive odor scents
Everybody who has missed a shower for a day, two, three or four, the cats eat your corpses.
Navigator on the cruise or the battleship remains on 24/7 watch of the old men and the sea
Proprietor of the seven seas and seven continents, essence of being a stardusted, rocky scree
A complete three act saga of dramatic experience of violated innocence of orphans of a Zeus
Every living man and woman who were boys and girls, boom, was a fertilized ovum, a ruse.
Back off of the attitude that the minions find distasteful, bombshell to be seen but not heard
Inside of the armory with the artillery and munitions, it’s a strategic air command, los lobos
They lay on the pavement in the cities and the authorities allow the new sewers of the absurd
Who hangs around drunk, evil hobos on or off of the streets of America? Other junky hobos.
Certainly, there’s an uncertainty principle, a thought expression that’s the ‘x’ of the equation
The Unknown is everything that we don’t know, that’s an indubitable fact of life, a mortal sin
Meaning that from innocence there’s an infection of guilt passed on by the infected unworthy
Leeches who spell ‘live’ backwards, RNA viral microscopic infections, ‘evil’ with blinded faith.
Homeless men gathered up yesterday, streets and sidewalks cleared by all of the king’s men
Humpty Dumpty dudes and chicks who sat on walls, had a great falls, broke into my lion den
I am armed and dangerous but the bums and junkies don’t care, they will steal & leave dung
Who raised these adult human beings? Where did their holy mamas and papas come from?
Take a moment right now, since your attention has been arrested by the sheriff who I’d shot
I am the deputy who caught a ricochet shot off of the chrome-walled cylinder full of roof rats
There is a probability of being unconscious while being awake and faking the role of a robot
Junk sinks to the sand undersea, wisdom of dead sea scrolls of rolled bones, y’all overshot?
Thought you’d believe in blind faith that your personality/spirit lives after/before a body dies
You won’t care that you’re not immortal until the Time in Space turns into a body of superflys
It’s no butcher shop where you give your number up to someone else, kick the horse, giddyup
You gotta give up the junk you’ve got because you’re a rube and the upper crust of a solo cup.
by
r j j stephan, i
c. Thursday, January 16, Twenty Twenty Anno Domini
{ Drafted in a box of cubic inches and millimeters while listening to HITS of @CannedHeat on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/fntMNNW0nYE }
FINIS
W.W.A.R.D.?
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