Just another schizophrenic San Franciscan nigga on the street.

For the for the people as all I do well is hurt hurt people.

Funny thing...

the ego.

Then cat said to the crew of klansmen at the bbq that "my attraction to you is only an attmept to make up for everything I hate in myself, and I promised to send you a money order by the twelfth and no later than the biggest full moon in my sign in reparation of scar tissue when you blew my mind with the thrilling narration oh brave founder of nations compounded with the occasional electric shock from the E-meter when you struck a match in the invisible clouds of my fetor. Oh, I'm so proud to be here. I'm no longer mystified by these irresistible urges to hurt my own person," in hella-flat affect as he inspected each's welcome mat in a tacit effort to explain ralowe's annoying racist preoccupation with asian boys with the warbled sound of a quartenary birth-order gary numan dub booming over the non-reduced taperecorder loosely coiled, bloodcurdling, rhythmically reasserting, "I would blank blank blank a blank-blank just to blank with you. I would blank a whole orchard just to blank with you. I would blank a big blank-blank with my empty omission. I would blank a blank a blank a blank a blank a lynch pin. I would blank you blank blank, but my accordion blew. I would blank a blank blank with formossa brand pork fu..." and it sort of gets screwed up here as in the midst of this confession ralowe very symbollically loses his pen and has to borrow another from the bartender at N'Touch that doesn't have ink when he suddenly starts to think 'you couldn't approximate foxy with a copy of how to erotically groom the body by the plume of the illuminati and I've assumed you already bought the soon after released tome concerning fridays and the connection of salary to bowery vacancies being scant when the pants gain an aching sensation for chasing chance of some degenerate inter-primate romance whistling a totalitarian tune that's more than a little too status quo spoonfed and infatuated with nasty boys' hackneyed arachnoid by-product of trapezoidal hoisting habits adapted to imbroglio the natural flow of facts along the axes of concrete planted trees to appease post industrial guilt for busting a nut during simon rex's new film;' if it seems as if I'm dreamweavin' myth it's really me singing the three-ring theme of my penis in english with fiendishly boring orangish coral flourish to force a rising taurus to cordially escort me to the floor for a morrice.

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if nothing plays you have my permission to click me