better days are coming.

finally.
check the almost-pastel muted background.
why?
because it's spring!
i mean, c'mon,
what are you, an a-hole?
general bobotronic hottness,
a highly decorated blitzkrieg berserker,
posing in a patch of acorns, even,

puffin' a potent pipe dream,
actualizing as a fully-opened box of whoop-ass,
showering the skies with some
'death from above',

in the form and function of symbolic sendings,
and elemental all-the-way-to-eleven just-be-dopeness 
in color coordinated squadrons of spirit-moths.
how many?

11 flying furious moths,
2 metallic medallion moths,
and even a skull with moth wings insignia, too.
three elevens, 
that's two different magic numbers, y'feel me?
the last one is on his kevlar sausage flap, written in runes.
a word to the wise-
don't wash your body armor in the spin cycle at the laundromat, kids.
it shrinks.
i'm sayin'.

the next step?

haunted castle ghost-king vikings.
naturally.

it's been said that fortune favors the bold.
if that's in any way at all true,
then this year will definitely add up to eleven.
we've got bold barbarian business goin' on in abundance;
more arthur-making than i even know what to do with is happening.
and,
once we move into a new place,
untold sun-surface degrees of thermonuclear temperature hottness
are definitely destined to get under way.
it's all about authentic battle damage, my ninjas.
you gotta endure all that you can,
sopping up all the weak-sauce and b!tch-sap,
until the saturation point is reached.
then you untether all that tension in a strong-to-the-finish counterattack.
popeye-style.
as in:
that's all i can stand, and i can't stand no more.
...so,
pass me a corn-cob pipe,
some spinach,
(fresh, please, not canned)
and then keep your peepers peeled for my squinky stink wink,
because with or without bulging battleship biceps,
BETTER days are comin'.
if you don't know yet,
you'd better get busy gettin' ready;
never quiet, never soft....