Universe Contains a Maybe. Go Get your self off the shelf, climb down the tube and un-stitch your mouth, weave, come on out, shout out, together now. Truck Censorship, Up. reach out, teleport to Geneva, teach out the peach box, call me the Queen of foreva, teach the furtive fruits from the roots, from the shoots, meditate on the river. Squat. State your ground ground your state. Dive in swim with Me’Eva forever and flock censorships to shore. You add the adjective ending to the Law of fives and Burroughs. Diva dives and rises with a Beat-box to put minds in flux. Break out the prison planet damn it. Walk through the walls Kick out the JAMS. Slam your tongue and have a conscious nice day, day in day out and about, kicking in/out the jams with boots coated in SaTiVa, Shiva Finnevil. Blowing wind melody, laying mellow day dreams with tunes from flutes, living in the “DICE” days. Let the wind speak. Kiss my LPs The Keys. (Burp) the the blind speak (Burp Bap) Embracing change, an open mind with a mic’, Diva eva Allieva the world debt of imagination of imagination. Eva electronic Diva. Get your self off the factory shelf moth flickers!, Time to deliver the way of the winding wynding river. Maybe Nine patterns in nine-four timespace, 123 BPM. shroom TeleTelecommunication fast EH! Fast EH! whizz-bang the peed of soundead. Wholly Chao! Wholly Chao! All along the River watchbanktowers. Un-stitch time with the Maybes of NINE time, Eva herself, yourself, ourselves, minutia of greater organisms. Mini MC Elves. Go DO It Trucking do it! start collaborative writing projects like lightening. We live love and learn as one family, join us, maybe in our non-equation gravy tea room. Wind and stars. Words and lights. Jimmy Calendrix pulls out a lighter tonight. Chimera of Nine Millennium bugs in a boogie, from fertile bogs. Percussive sound wholesome like Clogs. Don’t disturb Eva. Code values 9/9/99, the usual data appears absent. Shut down. Rule Lasagna. Nines to mean shutdown. Rule Lasagna. History shot-down. Who’s the author, who’s the author.
Since way before before History history, from the sky and sea of green tea came the spirit of great Borsky. Tele-ported from 54 BC. Poet bard inventor of mystickle cakes ice cream cakes. Borsky bakes History’s mystery solid to the pan of pun. Leaves scraps for the dog pan. Borsky of the Bong gone eara, days of crazy wisdom, with wit of Banshee and Tongue of tong fu tea. Casting light back out to sea and sky and making the shoes fit snug with a super-lace, knotting land and sky together, Borsky moth flickers! To cross again is not to cross, polite line, do not get cross. Pulling down the sky, Emcee Borsky of the Eburonic Chapter for ‘Pataphysical Research. Borsky To the B Sky Bee Boy Broadcasting Tea tymespicy. Wholly Chao! An ode to Eris and Everyware. Tetra-teleporting slack spyme juice. Borsky on the loose. Ubiquitusk. Tie it up nice to your face. Slingshot rotten teeth bullets to fix the world web. Beat-box the Battle of the French Canadian Bean Field Soup, keep Spitting Maybe debris, phalanx of panarchy. Baba Borsky. Invoking She, and doubtfulness with finesse so slick that it can undress your daughters of congress. Fix this mess, Baby logic can fix this chest of draws. All here now in the room and Borsky will not flee or pee his panties. He stands besides me. Us, on the magic bus, the Maybe baby class of 07. who’s the author, who’s the author.
Toby Jongleur perceptions angular, aerospace engineer, i can make flowers bloom in triangular patterns in the shape of a mouse ear. If i want. Or just sit by the riverside drinking from a fount singing this Lament of a Groan Man. Smoking a Sherman. No lamb just mint. From hour to theur you listen and hear the Bronx cheur from the folks that give ear n’ eye to Jogleur the Juggleur, spayking is clear as a king. Even after a beur or three, or seven other relative Instruments. Jongleur shows no fear of hell nor of heaven. n’J after class. Rah, Rah, Rah! Rest in Discord RAW! Coincidance Hall TJ passes a year in a single tear. Strong heart of a red deer. Smiling in a nation of racial profiling, harmonica harmony for humanica, solar symphony. TJ mossy software engineer. Shaman of the world and your gentle to your mum. Shaman to turn New York into Amsterdam. Bard TJ financier of words, pioneer volunteer for Humanica, joining hearts and minds together. Got cauliflower ear from days playing Rugby. You put the verb stem in, you take the ending out, At the last frontier getting young wonderers into freewheeling gears for the whole worlds rising day, the world premier of the third seer. No Slaves, No Tyrants, No Discord. TJ metallurgical engineer. The nine gods of Egypt descended from eleven. This Sweet story weaves nine stitches in timespice, and brings nine dogs with nine tales up in hods to the fifth floor. See rectanguleur and sleep away with me with that sheep you dimensional meddling little bus stand! Who’s the author, who’s the author.
Figure it out yo, just do the Mathias, figure it out yo yoshi yoshi. Like Hungry DavI.D Thoreau up. Me the math face, X,Y Z graph reads “T” thats “T” time for the staff, Math of the snow on the flow. On your face! Eh! Universe Contains a Maybe. Acid rain guitar moth flickers. Snow like missiles of bass when entering the vessels of the lasagna brotherhood, Rule Rule Rule Lasagna. Do the math in the snow, you’ll piss the test! Do the math like the graph, drink the red Bordeaux, who got the flow? (let me hear ya?) SNOW. Who got the flow? (let me hear ya?) SNOW. Who got the flow? Ra Ra Ra! Yush! (let me hear ya?) SNOW. Who can make it cold, hot however you go. Between your eyes on the dance floor at the disco, Eh! Shake it. Eh! Bake it. you put the future tintz of sum in & you milkshake it all about. in concord with number & person. Eh Eh ” Universe contains some gravy. Me crazy flinging lyrics like Tessa Sanderson. With my Snow hammer throw i knock punks down, Yo, i’m even a CEO of a little picture show. It’s a long way to tickle Mary. Do the Math, read the graph, switch on. Turn on to the Math Snow TV show your face place. On the case like John Holmes. Comb back your hair and drop the gun slow honey, snows gonna melt your mind down to chemical elements, right clown to your little toe, snow flow gets in between every toe and paints it in the style of Vincent Van Gough, a tidal flow of menstrual snow can defeat an empire in one, two, three, lasagna slings. Tic-tac-toe time me and my nine we got game to play. Come on moth flickers, paint up your game theory, do the math, my rhymes a Graph, a Glyph and a spliff. All that is, is metaphor. For burning snow mathias man, fire and the Ice Nine. Time to tell a Tub truth or two. Who’s the author, who’s the author.
The puppet, and the puppeteer. Me and my crew all got a tattoo saying Statutory Apeshit. We are the nine, know no fear. Hard, tuff, Teeth of George Washington, Hair of Kool keith. Listen up you might cat shit. With a copper Aura protecting the flora. Kick out the Jams moth flickers. Me and my brothers and sisters worked our selves into blisters for this life and shampoo. Now we bloom. I got the sauce and the verse noodle, the chrome and the curse, make rhyme tints for the review. ragu, shows you how to break through, with just a gym shoe and a tube of glue, ragu can make do, and now debut to the ground crew the strength of his home brew, ha ha, Ragu can renew the word, undue the absurd with a pool cue. Maybe Baby Ragu can see through the untrue and can subdue the political beef stew that threatens you with Minnesota-style decency. Ragu helps us pull through the intro-verse and traverse the “Universe” (Let me hear the stars) No taboo, all walls to be walked through, use magic fish stew, Oyster stew, kangaroo Ostrich stew. Wholly Chao! Wholly Chao! Rag studied in Timbuktu, got mad knowledge in the bag. Travelled to Kalamazoo to learn Kazoo from Master How Tsu Do. Ragu rhymes like a walking shoe, traveling soul about the world in my black bamboo earrings, reading, writing, daydreaming, sleep-dreaming, pot-smoking, feeding various neighborhood critters, and playing poker. Ragu the Queen of hearts Ragu the Joker. Favorite Student. Fun Uncle. Devil’s Advocate. Unwilling Recruit. Far-Out Friend. Maddening Boyfriend. Diplomat. Bureaucrat. Dreamer. But Who’s the author, who’s the author.
Tsar bright eyes tongue made of blue stars. Coincidence? Synchronicity? Cosmic Hilaritaste? just a taste. Wrestle with Malignant Extraterrestrials and Gawd while still scratching my face. Minjah Minja who bakes mysteries into edible puppets, action at a distance, effects from afar eye, living laws of five, maybe nine till five? Minja telepathic radar, solid as iron bar, tuned in with her super-Dog star, vigilant like a patrol car, on track like a railroad car and her sweet music, the sounds of minja on her old steel guitja. Minja is healthy, like rain like a salad bar, or Sushi bar, or yugoslavian dinar. Government Puja pusher. Minjah knows where what how and who you are. Left her Dogmas at the door. Telkepathic action at a distance, knowledge from afar, star born! Minja no kiddin’ turns out city lights when travelling back through a time hole. Turn you into a granola bar with my verse so far a crumbling strategy, and im just getting warm, waking up sons. aka Puller. Ninjah! Minjah! The words gonna Get Cha! Wife, momma, youngest daughter, baby sister, favorite Auntie. Rah, Rah, Rah! Rest in Discord RAW! Who’s the author, who’s the author.
Nip it, slap it like stand up bass. Come on now snap it on. Snap the beat in the Budd. Shuffle to NP’s beat. Shake it baby. Take it off, maybe. The universe contains a baby in the Budd. When i start to rhyme its like a terrible flash flood, nip it in the budd, dam it. Nip it in the budd Eh! Rah, Rah, Rah! Rest in Discord RAW! When i start to rhyme i go off like a scud, like a scud full of flowers. Yeah Eh! Mixed drinks in my rose garden. Rhyme in the mud, from the forests and the waterfall, i rap for Eris, Wholly chao! Nine’s crossed. A vine-hole to the Year Zero Zeroine. She in the cheese moon pulling it all in like a blog hole. History, that bloody dictionary of fundamental materialist facts incidentally recorded An ode to Eris for the Nine and for Elvis, the spirit of Rock n’ Rolled up gods, full blood Budd, mixed tipsy turvey, little rad writing pad wearing a hood. Everything and nothing are everyware now in a Web 3D spice. So lets milk it with the spirit of capitalism. Massage the udder of all cows. Nip it. Everything has vanished. Gone gone gone. Can you sell emptiness and space? SKY can! Ephemeral beings of deconstruction are eating reality. All of it, allmen. No authority can contain the water Web 3D coming all over you with slime and fluffy poodle fur and some bristles and a pink nozzle cap to paint your puzzle black. Nip it. Tuck it. Go ahead punk. Go find you Relative Instruments. Relative Instruments. Relative Relative Relative Instruments. Who’s the author, who’s the author.
Sweet Flock whore. Dramatic fanatic idiotic robotic word machine comes clean. Whistle Pissing Sonata. Stoned melodramatic agaric. All that is, is metaphor. Acrillic figa it out, axiomatic and diplomatic toxic in high does. Aromatic agaric but toxic. Turntable static tingle taste of Agaric. Wholly Chao! Cinematic stinking Fungus, fun gloss agaric antibiotic, auntie bionic, old tea, drink and be merry agaric, speaking semi-automatic and almost hypnotic toxic, toxicating, intoxicating, symbiotic intoxicating king of beers, and sewers. Turning to Howords Way and Immediate spacetime date tinter technology, lung wordsmanships but bogged down in a war on culture. They put holes in my raft. Hegemony, monotony, monogamy. Sturch choirs in chorus. The Spooks that spiked us? Straight authority figurines. DO Poetry, Join the Battle of the French Canadian Bean Field Souper men. Make it KNu. A stew. Make it brew Ha Ha. Unstoppable. Unknowable. Unthinkable. Your Mom. Love. Sweet FA spray particles of rim. Nine portals “driving storm” to Butter-table-minster. 1776: Starport “licks”. Forged keys. Unlicked lockgates. acrillacked restraint. Daisy-chain makers arms scaffolded. Lock, key, gate. Bow, crescent, chicane and curve. Who banks with river banks anymore anymore. Oh shit Diaper backward spells repaid. Who’s getting laid and paid with aid, who’s the author, who’s the author.
Nonprophet, back to back to transmit the message about how we make a global massage to relax the globe, see through the fake shit, nunsrocket tool kit bag full of witty letter to make your eyelash glitter. Star fragments i emit, cutting at History; a drill bit, turntable skit fleeting in/out, shake it, Eh! Shake it! Eh. The Universe contains a maybe so bake it baby. First take at a Ken Traverse Lament, then flush it away. With Nine here in everyware world always on timespice, fresh like what’s dew to the grass, made all my base hits and reversed profits to fit the feet of prophets, dressed in a nuns gown, the Suits just can’t make it man, suits and brown shoes don’t make it, Rah, Rah, Rah! Rest in Discord RAW! “BUY IT” commit to this HIT, hoof to the record stores and buy a bit of Nine maybe, use this tool kit put my rhymes back together, together bring the weather and colur back, the wooden furniture and garden perfumes, all in the room make it, bake, twist and get off it. Wholly Chao! Wholly Chao! Lickety split. See y’all in the orchestra pit where i’ll be piloting my spit to send waves out to caves on Mars, 12 bars blues, better pack your travel kit and have your expansion bit, double knitting time and rhyme and do it legit, non-prophet. Scribe of the holy writ, allmen! That’s the future perfect pissing tints. Who’s the author, who’s the author.