apocalypse Marchness

Definitely Not for children

day it is anymore. I think the President might say “nigger” today. Last week, the government came together to sign a historic $2 trillion Coronavirus Stimulus Bill. Then bad shit happened and then it got worse. As of this moment, the World Health Organization is reporting infinity. What are you gonna do? Count all the way to a hundred million? Every day? Pets die. Hemorrhoids and anal fissures don’t happen to us; Nooo, we’re naturally lubricated. Call from Fuck Your MOM you call me again I’ll find you and gang-rape your childrenBirds! Birds! Birds!!! birds, and birds, and birds, and words, and words, and nerds and nerds and herds and herds and turds and thirds and curds and

PO-tus PO-tus PO-tus PO-tus

PO-tus PO-tus FUCK-a this-a POTUS

PO-tus a PO-tus a FUCK-a this-a POTUS

PO-tus a PO-tus a FUCK-a this-a POTUS a

FUCK-a this-a POTUS PO!

shawn a list o bookommendations. Ummak Ummak Ummak Ummak UmmawakeupithemorninthinkinboutmoneykickyourfeetupwatchyouacomedytakeashitthenrollsomeFreeFall













Day! President! News! Dead! Pets! Us! Call! Birds! Book! Chores!

A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A AA A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A AA A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A AA A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A AA A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A AA A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A  A A  A A  A A  A A  A A  A A  A A  A A  A A  A A  A A A AH  

H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H   H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  HH  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  

H  H  H   H  H  H H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H   H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H 

H  H  H  H  H   H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  HH  H  H

 H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H   H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H H  H  H

 H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H H  H 

H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H   H  H  H 

H  H H  H  H   H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H 

H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H  H H   H 

H   H  H   H  H   H  H   H  H  

 H  H   H  H   H  H   H H 

H H  H  H  H

  H  H  H 

H  H  H 

H  H 

H  H


Peek around this corner at those big, beautiful boobs.

The air is thick and distant.

I will speak frankly to you, My Reader. I’ve arrived at the mouth of the Underworld. Proceed at your own risk and will. For you’ve deduced by now, I’m sure, that I am going mad. Put this down and head for the hills.

No? Very well. Onward. Onward! NOTHING can go wrong!

Was this bridge necessary?


Why, then?

Kings Canyon National Park

8:55 AM

NOTHING can go wrong!

I am in a great vein for composing literature,

For telling thee of the flows and floats of nature:

The wind feeding the fire, the fire feeding the earth,

The earth rocking the water, and the water suckling the life-throb.

These principles transcend the spite of man.

I am in a great vein to speak and sing,

But what’s to say or chant?

What’s there to speak of, or to be spoken?

How shall I fill the violent void of silence?

Mind your mind, pilgrim;

Track your tracks.

Let it all be said by two madmen in the woods.

Compose and walk upon the virgin earth.

Allow thy thoughts to stream, and speak

Them as they come to you.

Speak among the trees, the wind,

The sun, the grass, the leaves.

Speak! Allow the flow to trek

Wherever it may go.

Invoke Incant The Ghost of He

Who Stops And Waits For You.

Be thou His spirit’s instrument,

The spirit of His Song.

Be that which is America

Which lies untapped unsapped

Among these blackened Jeffrey pines,

This fern, this boulder, branch, and bush.

Be not unwormed by nature’s course;

Allow the “is” to do.

Now set to print the analects

Of Wisdom and of Age:

There’s naught to be had but experience!

No more to be taken or got!

Do and speak, then let it go with the wind.

Birth and death abound beside this creek,

And as the water does, the bee,

The sun, the wind, the rock, the fly,

The tree, the soil, the grass, you do!

You Write, and Write, and Die.

My Virgil, Adam! There he spills his wet

Along the shoulder of that angling hill!

I too shall wed my fluids to the earth.

My Muses Are Three Ladies: Face-

Less, Slender, Onyx-Skinned,

Whose Doric Stance Upon The Dais

Robed In Grecian White

Would Set The Darkest Seed Ablaze

With Originative Light!

And when They sing, I rush to write

Their fleeting prophecy.

An orgy now; it’s string up there,

It’s string, it’s string it’s k s i  t  s  r  s   i   i   n   n    g     g

I spot the hieroglyphics of time

Etched across the cleaves of dead stumps.

It’s natural here to question age itself,

For sans a past and future, there’s no age.

Here, the self is absent—that deceit,

Birthed only in the cripples of seclusion.

But in the infinity of selflessness,

The Truth of Life is this:

This Body, an earth itself unto

These bugs and viruses, ticks and fleas,

Is but a loan from the lending Hand

Which made you king of all this land.

Among this heap of shattered memories:

When I was a child, staying at the Sayed’s,

His daughter, she took me out to the shop,

And bought me a bag of Cheetos chips.

And as I munched with much delight,

I fancied them the roots and twigs

of all those trees on Reuter Street.

And I have wondered ever since…

Branches do not taste like chips.

If anything, they’re more like cake.

And now I stand before a mammoth rock

Amid the tattered branches, bushes, twigs.

Here I stop. It rises from within,

A thing as large as boulders, and as thick.

I’ve carried this around for very long.

And now I feel more boundlessly alone

Than I have ever been before or since.

I turn to call for Adam, but he’s gone,

As he should be. I need to be alone.

Alone, without him, I am better off.

And either way, he cannot help me here.

It rises, large and out. I throw it off.

It’s big and smooth and hard. It falls from me.

Adam notes my absence and returns.

I go with him. I leave it there beside

The boulder in the woods. I left it there.

Oh Adam, look. My monster’s in the woods.

Look over there upon that pile of death.

Look there upon those seared and mangled trees.

Mightiest of Trees, the Jeffrey pine.

Listen for that monster in your heart.

Listen for that scared and weeping boy

Who after all these years is cowered still

Beneath the shadows of your gods and imps.

She’s there, my Monster, looming from on high;

Proud and Terrible, old as time.

And there he stands, a little boy,

A fear unto himself.

He stands behind her, shoulders hunched

His penis in a knot.

Get off your ass, You Gutless Fool,

And fight this Bitch yourself!

This Grendel’s Whore! This Queen Of Cunt!

I’ll Fuck Her Ass To Hell!

She Stares I Stare—Dead-Eye Deadass.

We square. She heaves and roars.

Entrenched, enraged, I dig my feet

Into the sod, and take

A firm hold of the hilt and swing

The blade with awesome might

And drive the wedge into her neck

And sever the head. That house

Of flesh and Sin falls to the ground.

She writhes and drowns in red.

The sword drips blood, I eye her still;

The Bitch, The Bitch, is dead.

I start to walk away, but stop

And turn to her once more.

I must ensure this Monster here

Will haunt me nevermore.

Until the end of time, go fly,

You little boy. You’re free.

Yet I don’t go. I can’t, because

That little boy is me.


Come forward, Adam. Let us hence.

The deed is done. The Queen is dead.

Let’s grab a bite, the In-N-Out,

Where souls are shimmering from the eyes,

Then smoke a Nat, then hit the road.

You miss your mother. Call here while

I take a piss from off this cliff

And passersby honk their salutes.

Let’s talk, and laugh, and drive beside the night.


POTUS President of the United States. wakeup…rollsome “LUST.” by Kendrick Lamar. The Ghost…For You “I stop somewhere waiting for you.” “Song of Myself, 52” by Walt Whitman. Virgil Dante’s guide through Hell in the “Inferno”. sans without. this heap of shattered memories “a heap of broken images” “The Waste Land” by T.S. Eliot. When I was…me out “The Waste Land”. Sayed an Arabic title of respect; a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad. Reuter Street a residential street in Dearborn, Michigan. Mightiest of Trees “Loveliest of trees, the cherry now…” “A Shropshire Lad 2” by A.E. Houseman. Grendel’s Whore from “Beowulf”. Deadass seriously (slang). Entrenched…is dead “Beowulf” lines. 1557-69. trans. Seamus Heaney. nevermore “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe. Until the end of time by 2pac. The deed is done “Macbeth 2.2. In-N-Out Burger. Nat Sherman, a cigarette company.

Keep going?