suckle.

duders,
how is it possible?
nothing is going on.
usually,
you know the drill:
it's ALL really happening, an' that.
except it's not.
at all.
how about double blow-off at work today?
yep.
that's back-to-back busted beatdown doo-doo butter,
for MY face.
ouch.
and did i leave my other 'nother work,
as in, the jauns i could've utilized
like apt time-allotted hottness,
all alone at home?
of course i did,
i mean, i had appointments after all.....
until i didn't.
life is chugging it.
suckle.
suckle.
suckle.
big bj blowies with sharklike dentures,
passed out with aggression by the whole wide world, ninjas.
chompa-chomp, neighbors.
that's the hardest pre-XI-mas style i know of.
it's what is.
***********
competent communications, son.
that's what i'm workin' on.
how to talk dirty and influence people.
how to talk that real jauns,
and get away with it.
how to talk myself into that p.m.a.,
and out of the swamp, suckas.
i write what's going on.
i write wrongs.
i write about really realness,
as it exists in the here and the now,
ugly as sin and twice as sh!tty,
in the cold, dark, desolate doo-doo
of a sluggish slate of weak weeks
in the woodsly goodness.
this is what is.
hard pounding with a no-no noel stick.
a yule log shoved straight up and sideways.
holy nights, and holy sh!t.
this isn't write,
this is what is;
never quiet, never soft.....