Childhood under rosy stars, restaurant memories, diet confessions, food chatterbox. This is a good place for restaurant reviews! Just keep your mind awake, let the eye ride before the tide.
The wind is quite sweet like a bell with much defense. I walk beneath a whole lot of spring toward her offense. Another cat is dead under two gutters between more cars. Love in some other event makes women cry around stars. Maybe one word transforms our significance in a mile. Something breaks through disturbance for which I smile. Walking along the traffic’s magnitude is music to my ears. Mom craves for gravity although Pismo Beach leaks on years.
"Avenue F" by GameUniverso (me, myself, just one person, applause)
This is an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere, man!
See how the street sign looks kind of like the sky and how bushes seem to come closer?
Well, this is the kind of paradise you don't want to stay in because water is scarce in the desert and you'd get thirsty.
Really, really, really an abandoned house.
As faith gets you, you may end up leaving one of these.
Different abandoned places exist in California and such historical landmarks deserved to be recorded, even if I'm crazy.
"PBJ Quesadilla with Cheese" by GameUniverso (me, me!)
This is a peanut butter and jelly quesadilla with cheese grilled on top. I added cheese between a few flips of the quesadilla to come up with a more caloric treat. By the way, have more treats each year more than once. You can get a canvas of this piece as reference and the black spots are actually still tasty with above ingredients. When flipping the quesadilla, make sure to use your best two pinching fingers to help grab the tortilla edge with a spatula's role in the mix and quickly (really quickly) flip the quesadilla as if you're pulling paint from a wall. There's a great aftertaste of cheese and the peanut butter jelly flavor is not tarnished but slightly differentiated because of the cheese and grilled bread.
Note: if you let quesadilla cool for three minutes, the jelly won't be too hot.
Santa was trying to hatch four Easter eggs and rested on the colorful bunch for God knows how long. It seemed as if the Easter Bunny was more than preoccupied on this day in which he got sick and Santa worked up for him as a substitute, although Saint Nick had eaten enough cookies last year before going into hibernation mode. Let’s say all those desserts left behind for the Christmas present-maker were refused by naughty children because of their special colors. A fact such as that indicated in the narrator’s last sentence caused Santa so much grief as he realized that 327 jack-in-the-boxes were broken and about 2,000 teddy bears had the same malfunctioning springs. Still, the Easter Bunny needed somebody to guard his precious eggs before the winter allowed for more vacating vampires; the Sun was stronger in the middle of the year without the nasty effects of a mummy’s sleeping past, and yet half of those Easter eggs probably contained the cuckoos who leveled up with maniacal elves.
The hood-wearing elf was a giant, perhaps over five feet in more centimeters than inches, when Mrs. Claus entered the fictional shed and laughed at the little room’s soggy mess.
“Honey, you’re so stupid.” She was reluctant in anger. “I’ve been feeling sweet for the holidays and continuing to approve of the toys you can’t handle. Why are you in here in so much gloom?”
“I’m a substitute for the Easter Bunny, my dear, and I expect you to go to the best gym in the North Pole! Yelp has given me the basics, but you need to get in shape for the baking marathon three elves are holding by this year’s Christmas week. Besides,” Santa exasperated with a burning fever, “you’ve been here long enough to know Jack the Reaper and Uncle Sam. The Easter Bunny is trying to recover so he can bring them together at a Southern bar in Miami.”
Eyes glittered between husband and wife as only time permitted their existence. Both Clauses knew, against their holy belief for victims recovering from Florida’s recent hurricanes, the Easter Bunny wasn’t out to make a statement or act professional within the extremes of American politics. In fact, at least half a million sleighs had been repaired by elves who broke their backs for the holidays and Macy’s was on fire.
“We’ve had good food from that place in glory, darling, but what has the general southern direction toward Old Bill Murray’s anything to do with special days for celebration? I might be in the South right now depending on how my head is screwed on.”
Santa laughed, putting his cig on a piece of old glass and pouting in exaggeration.
“Naughty children don’t know us, my lady. Christmas can freeze up as we set our minds to it and I’ve stopped by gas stations from time to time to buy candy for Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer. He has some sweet teeth in his talk about Dasher and Blitzen, yet I agree with all three that Philosophy doesn’t work so well on flying animals since we’re up in the air around Christmas time at the speed of light.”
“You’re as fast as light, honey?”
“I’m exaggerating.” Santa lit up a cig which lost its mint flavor some three weeks ago.
“Oh, I may see your point as a great wife toward your adventures with gifts, honey, but I’ve work to do on the green video games. When should the elves open up for such high-end technology? Why, they’ve built for Microsoft as of late to meet demands, however late children are to their Christmas trees. You must be irritated when candy canes are eaten before the video games arrive in strange bows and gift tags; however, more than enough elves have been at command while holidays roll by. Darling! Eternity is practically passing us by and we’re late on our toy production for the first time since 1987, a year when cinnamon was out of stock at some markets and Thanksgiving led to a Friday with more black to it. Where do you want me to lay your… baskets, was it?… so I can get sleep day after day until my baking process begins?”
Santa told her to leave all five, multicolored baskets by the chimney and to return to the deer stables, all 28 stalls by the wooden shed, in preparation for the wintry spectacles that follow in about 180 days. Mrs. Claus obliged, setting the baskets and leaving the shed, and hoped Santa wouldn’t barge in on her when the Easter eggs hatched and took the first breaths of holiday life.
This can be a good album cover for a musician!
I've decided to try telling a story about deer who leave to the other side with different reflections.
Maybe me listening to "Blue Moves" by Elton John tells me something, but you have to wait out to steal the color.
Videogame Review, “Gunstar Heroes” for the Sega Genesis
The gunstars are back in outer space, looking for close-counter outlets to let their freak-flag fly proudly; nook-ing a war zone, or two, and battling out a reckless warfare as they check out the galaxy scene with down-to-earth aliens, the good guys create intense rivalries and if fate permits, try something else… saving the Gunstar 9 planet, or as otherwise its neighborhoods, watchdogs, and people call it “Planet G-9”. Where the moment takes treasure hunters, surprise gunstars.
An evil empire seeks out a god who can challenge G-9’s status to its fullest extent, the rusty tin corpse with devilish eyes who is more powerful than us and is God of Ruin. Not too many guidelines there, just “Golden Silver the Destructor”- (not to be confused with Chaos, “The God of Destruction” from Sonic Adventure, another videogame Sega sells-) just “Golden Silver the Destructor” and apocalyptic consequences. Spontaneity is definitely a turn-off; above all, the best thing in the world is four lovely gems at the end of a day hard night. Colonel Smash Daisaku’s army think they are on their way to a magic sack of four gems, starting chaos and going through world domination ‘till the gunstars reawaken. As they wake once more, the family kin feels a bitter wind of changes that no one deserves to feel; to start having chills to fall their way and more. Crying out to the blissful heavens, the gunstars spew out to the timely juncture: “We won’t let such a tragedy happen again! We’ll get back the gems and put a stop to the revival of Golden Silver!” Enemies’ not messing around is not the most important thing about Gunstar Heroes, but in case gamers are wondering… yes, a god is empowered by jewelry.
Olde rumours are to be taken seriously by Commander Grey avax his warship nicknamed “Ark”, or a plus-size UFO hovering to infiltrate caliber guns to make out with; they say, “revive the God that sleeps on the moon, and he’ll guide the most righteous people to Utopia”- and by that they mean the “Utopia” proposal requires these foursome precious stones, or the four gems I’ve mentioned, which can revive Golden Silver and supply Him with enough energy to grant wishes to his revivers, or “righteous people”, while stepping upon Mother Nature as the God of Ruin ‘till the doomed day goes away. If the myth is true, it’s impossible for an empire-led G-9 to live out the peace and prosperity promised by Commander Grey in response to the prehistoric legends. Villains like robot soldiers and military sarges give our zoning rangers an initial loss, by then gamers can end up gaining less when foes return to a normal difficulty. Any thug that is not balanced or leaves you feeling dead will put your gunstars into a sort of *survival mode* (TV screen flashes red by then), and if they stop killing bad guys it’s really bad for their general health. With a single 1-up, and no instant-death life meter (100-200 plus HP), losing health steadily and slowly will ensure that gunstars maintain their objective destiny when they die here, so the answer to robot reduction is firepower control and more exercise. They need to run outside in the sun to do jumping and running on land so laidback in a kind of artificial, futuristic Camelot kingdom, but fighting the opposition takes a few hit points away from one’s life like that of many other modern video game heroes: Max Payne from Max Payne; Tommy Vercetti from Grand Theft Auto: Vice City; Ratchet; Pikachu; Yami; Prince Marth from the Fire Emblem series; Princess Natasha; Rallen from Spectrobes; &c. Staying in shape is that simple ladies and gents, so get those gunstars out of bed and start exercising!
“Empire army is attacking the natives! Save them!” says Doctor Brown, labrat and elderly assistant to the gunstars. “Choose your weapon. You start the game with the weapon of your choice. Choose carefully.” Slightly naive of him to assume laser users will swap fourteen weapons, but his advice is correct. The man has never been in bad position with his universe navigations but defeated Golden Silver maybe once in his entire lifetime. He becomes accountable because of the gunstars who have treated him as such and depend on him in some way. The Gunstar Dynasty- made up of gunstar yellow, gunstar blue, gunstar green, and gunstar red- is a more than superior team of super heroes because their efforts are being coached by a competent scientist.
From home base in and out, Doctor Brown dresses half these rangers up into bandana-wearing punsters; netted clothes, and high-tech gadgets from the comfort of his computer lab, where machines, PCs, and corky electronic gizmos are telling them G-9 is a no man’s land: brown, splitting the geography and future’s drama and presenting itself barren and having little of the natural resources. Two gunstars just rock it out; they pick up so many footsteps off the ground and leap space bound, forwards and backwards, and can shoot whatever they like. Well, except for pink caterpillar eggs. Putting three battling tanks and five spartans in destructive means is easy, a little timing and reflex is all; what’s more, those pink eggs, left over by that gigantic cactus-like creature thingamajig, aren’t help to the punsters at all. But relax; dozens of droids come marching in with terrorist explosives which are harmless to gunstars. TNT left them.
No Nurse Joy or Pokemon Center gives them any more helping hands either, as robots consider bandana-wearing punsters looking like a threat and having some “powerful rangers” as becoming more violent than a police learning their neon craft and trying to be the exotic enforcement they can be. Are gunstar yellow and her brothers paid under the table by a fighting establishment; and if so, can this secret organization buy out paychecks in Gotham’s name to Batman and Robin too? As the Nostalgia Critic rejoices such questions, “Nobody knows!” Answer “Yes!” or answer “no…”, attacking the almighty entity shows us that gunstars assume battle means that whoever wins battles doesn’t bother to take it back. Their firearms have it handy; guns gets physics/barrels/seekers/laser capsules and all mod cons to get the landscape back in shape after such rampaging of invasions. Gunstar Heroes boils down to everything in moderation, and action, even if it’s a brisk risk each time any action is better than nothing, slow and steady. This is boom-boom doing but gunfire ammos- Force, Lightning, Chase, Flame (laser yellow, laser blue, laser green, laser red; in order)- are as swift as a starswift, each with a rate of effectiveness of its own, and they are loaded by good punsters only. Gamers will be intrigued with pulling out either 5- or 8-way gunshots, since robot agents, as well as their partners in crime, already snatch up difficulty during certain moments in the entire videogame, plus different stage bosses at their ultimate day. These ultimate warriors want to come visit where they can lay out their ferocious assault. We can’t blame them. TERROR has been the empire’s secret selling point for far less than several years or perhaps far more than a hundred years or more. Now with humanity’s hope in their hands they must really revamp sidelines and the opportunity to save the innocent, for real; “Save them!” the doc orders.
From suiting up the characters to choose from, punster red and punster blue, we hide these gunmen twins in a disguise for brawl; then when your fighter’s joystick is ready, and trigger happy, the brothers champ the first four courses in arms: going pyramid skiing, and rushing through a few occasional forest excavations before they race among the ancient ruins; taking out some heavy metal metro trains driving somewhere from an underground mine; gunning down Captain Orange’s vanguard charades in the proximity, or distance, of his great flying battleship; and playing a Monopoly boardgame with its lord and master, Officer Black Jack, at his strange fortress in the shadowed realm. (Gunstars may cupid shuffle their cards off!). Smash Daisaku, the Valdosta cat with his praise for messes, doesn’t allow plot spoilers to steal the victory, but gunstars believe in “don’t fail citizens”. Gunstars butt against this quick trip, driving criminals over the edge; it’s a truth to the gameplay which has punster green leave a gold miner’s cavern arena, “in a huff” that is.
Golden Silver’s moon is the place providing a home, and our last protocol, yesterday and tonight, giving us bunches of galactic battlefields advertently starry with the new lights and dwarf stars’ brilliant hues, in this environment and astral system with the probing of flying saucers’ metallic paint-job. Reasons for the heavy gravity, however, I’ve never found yet. Jumps, up and down, change every astronaut’s height just as insignificantly as laser cannons cause serious damage to a UFO’s rocket engines while on the moon: Earth wide gravity keeps skies safe from high explosives and human blimps. But go on the attackers must, so forth on we hack the alien craft and lock the space invaders into a desperate chase, not through solar infusions, or a total myth, among escalators and above helicopters (Captain Orange keeps one set with a fair tan) are we able to allude to the trenched, 2-D scenery of the cosmos’ infinity and greatly throughout in anticipation of innovative expansions, although Doctor Brown’s marble-like potions (15-20HP per new ball) are quite much of the stuff that makes Gunstar Heroes adventure- or RPG-like in any way.
The computer AI and its structured, or fixed, CPU seem to show during gameplay… as do courses that have left similar quality, likewise to get the gamers’ heads out of Planet G-9 and to have them realize some action has to improve the flow of gameplay rather than make it worse. I am reviewing a 3rd-person shooter, but have any of you gaming folks ever tried out arcade combat games like Mortal Kombat 2 and Street Fighter 2 or something better? I’ve played those. You’d pick this ninja dude on such games like Gunstar Heroes, see, and beat three ninjas up with professional techniques before some hot chick in red velvet busts the cap off a stranger’s gasoline. Uh, you know. An inflicting brawl often is either hard or reversed on easy with variable effects and situations between the streaks of conflict. It appears Gunstar Heroes resembles that same casual extreme of inflicting matter, but in its matches with combat regiments. Here’s an unhelpful gunstar in charge: the shapeshifting lizard gunstar green calls his heavy-duty robot, “Seven Force”. Don’t touch it, just make sure green’s colossal tech also traps its third leg in between its sensitive limbs as you are firing. Kick it hard with the baseball slide in the bum in case your arm gets trapped. Must remember not to cling onto his transforming gadgets, then you’d save energy I’ll never forget. Says gunstar green: “We have to stop him!” Definitely hope Smash Daisaku is resplendently dressed in red and black, and that colonel will announce that he’ll join punsters on their hairs in due time.
Getting even is a great recovery coup for Commander Grey’s empire, whom we guess is accepting criminal applications. Most boss fights have their very own unique style; Gunstar Heroes mismatches courses and boss levels (which is harder, hunting birds in the wild wilderness with a pair of noisy blasters or wrestling Black Jack’s diced monsters without boxer gloves?), and laser-equipped android midgets- my example of a stage boss- wanna shake things up a bit. I LOVE scruffy guys! he he Now truth be told, both rocketing henchmen and their strategic options are known for being deliberate and Grey’s armed reinforcements’ child pranks go with “falling from the sky” tactics. Captain Orange’s berserk crew have mere patience from no-fly zones to frontlines, and absolutely all the patience for their self-centered, level headed leader and chief, Colonel Smash Daisaku. He doesn’t love weak tools or happy jerks, but to his army Smash Daisaku is all about love and fairness, or so he hears. A listen to his terrifying laughs brings fear and bemusement from his angry attitude; he’s sensitive, but not patient. Commander Grey’s missionary objectives are set on a no-failure basis and so, as we can see, Smash Daisaku is yelling at his comrades and patrol officers before they feel his boot.
It’s like Smash Daisaku depends on his robot soldiers- the space guys, evil at their jobs as terminators, but unfortunately when lacking experience the best intentions turn out… sour. He really should know better. Gunstars, spirits of all people! Gunstars’ situation- shows that thugs aren’t really looking after thugs, that slimeballs pay a violent action figure no attention. One day the empire and its obvious dictatorship will crash and it may be sooner than we think. Roll tide. A general will brainwash gunstar green and G-9 will be a horrific expansion for world domination. When criminal activities do implode, gunfire and fire will be spectacular. The god explodes and loses His jewelry; above all, the best thing in the world is four lovely gems at the end of a day hard night. Low and behold, its violence, and yes, UFOs have to explode a lot; explosions pass by with pretty much all the nooks and crannies they come in contact with, and our punster heroes are headed to “Ark”, Commander Grey’s holy-mother ship avax a wide universe, to leave as a victorious dynasty. Maybe this is a wake-up call, maybe Sega is substituting our feeling of security and respect for “15 minutes of fame”, or maybe the Sega fans and gamers are in enough luck to witness the end and conclusion of Gunstar Heroes.
Gamer, their name means the ones to contact with a beautiful and successful humankind. The gunstars check it out and headshot those evil, terrible, or laughing! Evil means more! In face of this almighty entity, punsters assume mano-a-mano means that whoever’s awarded a medal for dignity doesn’t bother to take it back. So if the enemies are 420 degrees friendly, punsters won’t be playing best amigos with them anytime soon, for serpents are angelically challenged. It’s all about the feel-good factor because (hopefully) you are not an amazing piece of gaming machinery, and I can’t guarantee that I’m not on the duck hunt either- Gunstar Heroes is genuinely about making each gamer feel tense and have fun at the same time.
Snow White slipped through the matrix and ended up at a prince's kingdom where mushrooms made people grow pretty big with lots of health. Coins were scattered all over the royal area and something like two dozen meowing miners visited Snow White every five weeks in celebration of her recovery from the Poisoned Apple Computer. When a sleepy dwarf asked her about the German dress she wore to the nightly parties under the flashing sun, communication among them ended in satisfaction toward the growing people. Sure, there was conundrum between all the miners and an evil mother who wanted to be Snow White's retail worker or crew member for so many pies on discounts, but such hot subject as I'm mentioning it only results in display of gathered fruit, for which all 14 dwarves managed for proper gardening and real harvesting against the great stars which reflected Snow White's face in exotic appeal.
"Deer Abstraction" by GameUniverso (someone like me)
Try not to ask me how I do this without first realizing that I'm strange. I feel so strange, almost alive. Photos are often handled as abstract paintings and this alluring picture is only an exception if you consider different traits of it.
Tuck these fingers or bar the bell, that globe will stir the swishing lava. Down to boil the shadow from our wishing sun, I peel the crown from her gloves. Cartoons spy with huge eyes around my video game call into her TV plumbing. Divas grow with shoes, prisoners have no signs. My Zenith has a rainbow, I fluff my seat with fat hands. When my snack isn’t a meal, I find some other thirst. This land isn’t sold to be old, I wake the food to steal the moon. Turn this lash or plant the wear, and I’ll be sooner to be told. Spinning my pockets makes me dizzy, I get dizzy for to break. After wrapping those buds or shooting near guns, I wash dishes or funny knees.
"Sweet Grey Dream" by GameUniverso (get to know me better)
This is like my other grey photo, but it's been refined with sweet colors.
I recommend getting the picture which has the right combinations of values and shades.
I can't fix a peanut with action in limbs. My hug is locked up to a beating heart of music. This jewel is a brother to a spinning clock on parade. Words for a picture come from that seed over hot roots. One decision stays in a branch while sounds turn to ash. Fires are members of the important vacuum to money. Barriers start through personal faith as owners vanish. Sensations become the friction between dreams that softens. All of my creeds remain as objects when they transform into conflict. History is the language which makes those treasures wet up.
A Welsh
rabbit in transient color halted the machine and jumped aboard an airplane
which could swim in the quiet sea, only to in turn crash into exotic sailing
posts that hung out between the waves and ram into a thousand islands against
neap tides. Curious aspects toward his
adventure may include a few camera angles off the ocean or a bit of shine from
a treasure chest he found beneath a violent reef where two monkeys fought over
a banana giving them bad reflections.
Hmmm…
Just case in point, such
a fluffy creature sure knew where the narrator was and his chilling thoughts
sent shockwaves through both monkeys as he exclaimed in tropical wintry dispute,
“Sirs, these reflections cause spite among yourselves to the point of
consideration and I suspect your old faces must lie under coconuts!” I haven’t wished you a Happy Christmas yet like
the carrot-eater did so don’t get me wrong: either monkey was fine with not
being so real. Quite possible the mixed herd
stole a lot of peppermint from Santa as gasoline to get to the sandy treasure,
a fruit piece from the fun box which showed ugly truth for the hairballs as all
trio in whole listed a plan to bring his toy-making elves to a summer’s
paradise.
*Photo Attribution: By Thomas Nast [Public domain], via
Wikimedia Commons
Note: It’s possible to plagiarize with public domain works
if you present them and act as if they’re your own. For my blog and Google Communities, I’ve
usually given attribution for a work of public domain and often give an
appropriate citation when it’s apparent to provide. Please, although some of you may be unfair at
times, you guys need to try to not be boiling mad when I refer to somebody else’s
work. Such temper would be an indicator
of some sort of primitive belief if you would have the anger and communication
will only fail if too much aggression is expressed. I thank you for following and Happy Holidays!
It’s sardonic with delights of horror. This is partly because chaos overlaps on
discord to add the finishing touch of beauty, or since there’s sexual
expressions with coolness and exaggeration, or when a young virgin makes a call
over a rare stone to command of recent ages, and all three reasons work at once
as a whole to describe the entire 80’s flick.
Burger King is just down the street somewhere minding their own business
when a chaos of war loosens up to tremendous effects with so much beauty and
elegance of horror that any irritation is overrided by wit and prestige on the
parts of actors. The Monster Squad,
compared to the Burger King Kids Club, is more of a roughhousing group of
hooligans who display emotion with fire in their eyes, almost to the point of
poetical debate and romantic insults. So
many primitive beliefs are laid down in German with reference and demand toward
gross ambiguities that I begin to drool over my chair at the thought of world
destruction, commanding posts, spoiled brats, and horror fanatics. A movie of this nature is really an exaggeration. I can imagine some artist sitting in a room
somewhere thinking of abstract visuals to go along with the darkness and relaxing
in subtle thoughts over vice in the southern tip of the United States called
Miami. Reference upon reference is
played out in overlasting beauty to achieve a touch of great, enthusiastic,
radical behaviors. Particular streaks of
color, some in lightness and plenty in dark shades, command upon the artificial
objects of land when beauty soars in magnificence over horrific concepts, only
to in turn stream with new perfections that add more flavor to the whole mix
with astounding exotic presentation.
Writing about movies in general can be a random activity even if we just
touch upon basics and don’t play around with concepts, although here I’m making
attribution in originality toward “The Monster Squad” because an artist’s
exaggeration of effects can simply make me smile further on, let me be
self-inflicting with my own personality and come to notions about dreams and
marvel, and show me that possible ideas should be rebounded for appealing
experiences toward the great exchange of movies and newcomers. Guessing whatever I mean is approved of
unless some ideas act as obstacles in your mind against further progress of
talent and such a theory as this, if you may read slow to read between the
lines of my philosophy on horror, only shows whatever is evidenced by reaching
the humorous objective I intend. Any and
all kids in the Monster Squad Club are presented with gross humor to portray
their elegance of irritations against one another while vampires almost seem to
rule the Earth and a werewolf gets away from old gasoline toward meeting
objectives for world domination. Try
this movie if you dare to take some criticism.
Poker is a game that's played using your hand and slips of hardened paper called "cards". Photo attribution: By U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist Seaman David Finley [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
"Buggy and Misshapen”
A doctor was quite feely
after he ended the dispute with a blowout.
Pacifiers hung on hooks around the emergency room as two nurses played
cards with some guy who lived down the corner of a bb gun store, next to a few
tables with five lamps and a five-week old jelly jar.
“My joker looks better than your joker,” he replied as cute with a display of
philosophy.
Something was playing off
the broken radio that turned the wise guy and the doctor on, but either nurse
could hardly relate to sold items as follow: rusty hammers, mosaic glass,
kitten pencil sharpeners, windshield colors, snapped books, marine rings, and
coffee from a galaxy far away. A bit
odd, didn’t they think? More than enough
items were gathered in the emergency room for the hospital’s fundraising
process. It all seemed… out of
spite. Both nurses had to start shifts
with the same name because any and all computers in the facility were buggy and
misshapen.
“Doesn’t the future seem strange? My
joker has been better than yours for the last three hours since two guys
recovered from a heart attack and left us to our precious selves.”
“Oh, Richard! You’re just thinking of
the bathroom again.” The nurses were
honest.
“Yeah! Well the guys were standing by
the coke machine and looking for presents left for them by visiting children of
theirs. I’m more than a bit odd in my
vocabulary, but don’t let my joker scare you until you’ve seen a fantasy or
something.”
Suddenly, the joker on
Richard’s card popped out and greeted the nurses with cotton candy.
“Excuse me?” Richard was surprised. “The candy is for the fairy who went out to
sea to fetch sushi!”
“Really? Huh.” The joker grimaced in monochrome. “There’s commotion in the air which hangs on
the balance, or to such extent as to leave me in earnest with Fluffy Sweets!”
“Isn’t Coal Valley a good 170 miles away from here?”
“Yes, but I have to go.” The joker
vanished back into the poker card and the entire hospital was laughing at the
medical trio. Doctor, nurse and nurse, Richard,
and everybody blushed with exceptions toward sleeping patients on splintery cots. A triple rainbow eventually turned into a
triple moonbow outside three windows against the emergency room where all three
unfortunate victims cried for such short notice of romance and prestige.
Butterflies
were growing in the guns until the wishing star came back. Of course, it was the spring of their return
which caused mayhem and dismay for this planet of a grand size. Maybe the weather would return sooner for
them than expectation commanded or plenty of fish danced beneath the clouds
toward a roaring storm? A magical
unicorn was roaring, too. The whole
animal kingdom was roaring as dirty rats swam in fairy floss, children knew the
sun, aliens glowered over fun devices, and magnetism swept through the air in
fictional mystery. Police earlier had
taken exotic elves out to the managed kitchen where Columbian drinks were set
aside against a counter that showed extreme forms of cleanness.
“What’s this?” inquired an officer as he pulled off a compromise between two
friends for chilling out.
“Just shut up, will you? Fred, it’s been
nine toward the stars and we’re growing feet!” Ears in the room dismantled after Sojourn
Zenith raised a bar and butterflies suddenly soared from the small
turrets. Butterflies of different colors
hit the air. Some of those fancy bugs,
if I were reckoning a truth of greater defeat, turned against a dreaming window
and perfected their show of transient colors, hues which repeated to blink with
tremendous feat.
“Don’t get us wrong now!” Fred hollered.
“Why should we listen, Mr. Zenith?” Two
of Fred’s pals chimed in at once with glory in demeanor.
“Butterflies are so beautiful when the wind turns around to chuckle at their
wings.”
Don’t get me wrong:
butterflies often made formations with less flesh than humans did. Some fancy bugs just seemed to transcend on
matters with thin bodies of weight which were perfect and alluring for drifting,
hanging in the air, going against all rain to remind newcomers to dreamlands of
why glitter would better be touched by magnificence of flight to in turn stream
throughout transitions. Police and elves
that day knew there’d gleam so many practical forms and images that butterflies
who moved on all marks of a compass could combine in a kitchen to reveal their
awkward transcendence on beauty within creative sizes, thus a bar of chocolate
was raised and little toy guns shot out the colorful herds above glowing
ground.
A toy for bread will juice the lunar escape by the gravity for music. I will play into my skin or raise the tree’s role like a poll for the sick. Heavens in the dorm will paint the pupils by sight and frame. Lurking shadows sweeten around my bend with curves to tame. A thought’s exhaustion turns my table toward the doom of wicked thumbs. Outside of my bedroom, an owl’s eye is a stranger to Arabic gum. This ink sizzles to days, to nights it bleeds. The chants of my money will slow the needs. Think of a piano’s speech from its tickled bones. Elephants chew the gardens with a nose for moans. I eat the hole and watch the grave. My ancestors are younger with more to save. Wisdom teeth are dripping with the blood of spices today. I shower myself with grocers to go way.
*A schizophrenia poem with lurid ideas. I was sick.
**Photo Attribution: By Michel Wolgemut, Wilhelm Pleydenwurff (Text: Hartmann Schedel) (scan from original book) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Sounds are corrupted and screen has uncomforting
graphics. While it’s true a screen of
much size can prove what graphics are possible to demonstrate, my parents can’t
be forced with an inferior product and they’ve already been even more unhappy
than they were before this tv came into our casually formal lives. To be honest, Westinghouse has given a
television set of grand size that is very much a handyman’s job before we can
watch any program for the first time. I
still can’t leave Westinghouse with a review that’s two words long; in fact,
such input would likely be commonplace and not worthy toward their attempt at
appealing to our budgeted market with something that at least functions with
some basics. A tv of this nature may go
on with partial fundamentality, yet its characteristics are like some of those
of a bad guitar a singer throws away at a concert as he takes some booing from
the crowd. Does that musician’s curse
sound familiar? Maybe Westinghouse needs
to do further study on the technology department because, well, I’m naturally
aware of technological problems as they arise and fashion in general is what
plenty of folks exhibit when they remark on problems with temper and
grossness. All I have to do to be
technologically aware is to exhibit myself to as many odd situations as
possible in order to get a taste of life when tragedy is down in the
dumps. People go through such tragedy on
a daily basis since money’s already been spent and had for products in question
and life-long experiences are those dimensions which take a long time to
realize and actually taste. Yes, even
bad tastes can come back to haunt you if you’re not careful about beauty for
which Westinghouse’s tv here has a jugular version of. A television’s beauty that is “jugular” tends
to have a coarse effect in overall approach, as the general display of
technology might have some bits that would’ve worked but instead don’t since
the erratic nature of sound, visuals, and pleasure is amended to ugly ends by
such a technological piece. In other
words, there must be dignity to a technological device as well as pleasure, and
our tv feels cheap in both price and quality although such elements of low cost
really show up as aggressive factors to horror overtime. Westinghouse may surely give a philosopher on
horror something to remark on with touch and prestige, but my mom doesn’t like
a zombie’s gurgle when the tv produces its sound with remarkable exaggeration
in a broken kind of way and dad notices he gets dizzy and messy while being
exposed to jazz which comes off of the tv as coarse and inappropriate, both
kinds of sound resembling tremors an elephant has when it dies in a rose
garden. Please don’t get this tv. It will ruin your sense of pleasure and make
you wonder why common sense is so underrated.
Often on the internet I heard someone call himself a "starry rose".
One day I wondered, 'How can a starry rose have any existence without abstraction?'
So, after managing photos for manipulation and prestige, I've come up with my version of a starry rose.
It's not that colorful in multiple forms of light, but at least its shapes go off in diagonal curves to give you an irregular star.
Enjoy this baby and rock it on out! Yeah!
A curl of the branch is what now leaks
When yet my sky will bleed from sorrow;
However, I regress through thirst near peaks
Before a sad worm’s hidden by voice tomorrow
For all, toward stitch on fame, recover pledge
Against your loud slogan within exhaust:
I’ve again to tweet on her homing edge
So, that between sands help as crossed
Fly on skin and bone over these graded sprinklers
Under audience in silent glee.
One word to describe this poster is “chaos”. There’s colorful definitions which go off
here and there in different directions so that fields of vision go hand in hand
at odds and ends. Examples of wild
imagination are portrayed with less familiarity in order to exhibit chaos
against its discord, hence there’s result of beauty as messy as it is. Some of the brighter colors can almost seem
like interpretations of another kind of courage. One word: chaos. Such irrelevant elements may in turn act on
the poster’s aggressive peace and create the alluring stillness when the paper
is placed upon a wall of tiny bumps, displaying the Beatle’s emotion in hot
colors which saturate the mess with broken pictures until those irritating
factors are smoothened into a nice atmosphere of love. You’re probably wondering how I have these
ideas, but, to tell you the truth, shared context of meaning is an
illusion. People are bound to think
differently from each other or dispute on the remains for which, as I ponder
over this thin work of art and imagine missiles swimming with grins on against
a general in cartoonish black uniform, the Beatles remark on to name the chaos
by “Yellow Submarine” and indicated images showing poetry in motion. Honesty is the best policy on the Beatles’
part since any kind of madness indicated in the album “Yellow Submarine” should
be dispersed in meaning to clarify the muffled irritations exhibited by this
art piece. I’ve put this poster on a
blue wall where a garage is reversed into a living room quarter; however, hints
of the poster relate to my calm room whenever I’m rebuilding wall decoration to
fit my living quarter as a museum-like apartment, furnishing up blandness after
those pretty colors set in. Commending
on this marvelous work puts me at advantage before blinds are seen with the
naked eye and dad suspects whatever good notion I imply with me decorating up a
visual message. Don’t let me confess
even more on quality as seen without first presuming the different voices
possible to read my subtle, enthusiastic praise here. Context of meaning between my positive
comments should serve as a reminder on why an agreeable reviewer’s bias tends
to tie up some of the knots in our hearts as he, whom I suppose is me, adds on
notions to his positive voice in a varied kind of communication when poetry by
the Beatles seems more beautiful than a wise guy’s interrogating life. Please, by all means, pick up this
masterpiece and remind yourself of how even the ugly elements, if passing
bodies rotating in odd circles to portray such a beautiful mess with theory on
war for love, continue to overlap with a single prejudice of acceptance and
embrace, although (I must say) it’s still a war out there.
