2 MUCH IS TOO MUCH, ‘50 TO ‘20 *
Richard Joseph Stephan · Thursday, July 2, 2020
--------------- #VictimOfTrueRomance ----------------
Mama mia and my papa were married on this day, July 2nd in 1950-1956, duplicated on high
Four of the mix in Italian and Irish-German red blood, soon to forget ancestry of rolled to die
Thrown into a wild field of dreams of my parents, some knew them and some never, ever will
Except to assume that I personally am the dynamic combination of DNAcid, chromosome fill.
Communication between two or more receivers of audio-visual-olfactory-tactile-taste of Sin
One you weren’t present for since you personally didn’t exist in the universe, it’s your fault
All of this Earth revolving, wobbling, orbiting in all-star formation of hydrogen lit explosions
Coming from the center of Nothing but a signal of compression of matter, gravity collapses.
Consciousness and a holy soul let loose by Powers on the Thing Itself, land’s sea of quicksand
It’s the Truth, that’s the Justice of the whole shebang, mama used to say too much’s too much
Should have been obvious to start right at the precipice of Enough because enough Is enough
Groomed after Conceptions for a clear deception’s formulation, a dreamboat in a dreamland.
A boy in the light and in the dark, fear and loathing what comes creeping in and out of life
A mind of memorabilia from day One to the presence of the hunger and lack of satisfaction
Under the sun or the moon, in the brightness or in the shadows of night, star still shines in
Whiskey and moonshine keepin’ me up and plants of Mary keepin’ me down, copacetic pin.
Alright you now have the codes of conduct, the good and evil before and beyond the graves
Same old story and same old song, different word recombination of the Acid, cowboy haze
It matters yet it doesn’t really matter at all, Jack Daniels is fine, Hamm’s all refreshing who?
Once a hammer goes down, only smoke’s left but I won’t be invisible, rhythm fades to blue.
Born to crawl and never to run beyond the leaders of the pack, watch them lead over the cliff
Walking is fine, way behind preferably to stay away from the stench, dying well fed herd stiffs
All forms of the same thing, 208 bones, 840 muscles all with a bad attitude from slave ships
Who we were way back when we ran around sidewalks, alleys and streets dead ends’ whips.
Your heritage don’t matter to the Dead and Gone, what matters is that you see me eye to eye
With your country that you depend on for your God’s dam of food and drink, mom’s apple pie
Putting on your thoughts which are caused by WORDS you read in a manifesto, division key
Tied down with me at the whippin’ post until sundown, then escape is mine, Ghost is in me.
by
r j j stephan, i
c. Jeudi, July 2, 2020 A.D. @11:11 AM PST
*Ma & pops (RIP) married on THIS DAY long ago. Happy 70th !
I was their first child born 13 months later In Wedlock...pops may have been shootin’ blanks!
FINIS YAHOO! VERIZON!
W.W.A.R.D.?
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