For Heather Carden
The Last Virgin Pressureflip
After the last virgin pressureflip, on handrails like plumbing you jump to the handrail's own silently implied and invisible conclusion,
And I could not but help but think an eight year old or tween Mc Twisting was some sort of death of author.
X tricks, like X people slumming away in the sway of all its slippery proposition.
Was pressureflip architect, flip engineering pedestals upon air to stand,
Was when you s/kate, you date oneself (like going on a date), tricking yourself to trick.
Was so to self convince, was so to self hypnotize all required flocked lust of self seduction of all the horny brass brassiere of turning trick,
Was so hundred dollar philips hardware violence that does never come to key,
Was a rollin on a roll in groaning on screeching fading wheel,
And was it just some compulsive auto-documentation plate-ing floating over glass eye of the vomiter?
Thrilled with deathlessness, compelled by gabeling ravers,
All bore dice and bury all off requisite Powell & Peralta bony am subs,
And stretching-breast podcast for stooping musk Muska Ohio ranch house dormers.
Shut up, eat my clip, as just all received automatic loaded subsequent edit updates do tell, all but to roving ocean-sea off the gurry of fisheye.
There's No Such Thing as a Halfway 50/50
There's no such thing as a halfway 50/50 clip clipped only for peers (or at least that's what I've heard),
On a video of only Saturday darkslides filmed right off the tv,
Like old vert wives nostalgic for any vert trick tips video-taped at half price.
Tumyeto tool machine, cropped out by flip—
And cropped by Arto am Flip pop punk edited exactly two years way too late (punk dying again in '95 and all of his 411 profile Rowley libertarian neocon Fugazi fuzz),
Sweat on the face like suck on promiscuous penny,
For bussin' blades up all the night bitch gravel.
And you won't get credit—
Or, if you do do get credit it probably won't be enough this time,
Or if you ever do get credit, it will probably be too late by then,
Or if you even get any misdirected credit at all, you get just enough so that it all would be so embarrassing,
but probably also about as consequential as a haunted baseplate,
Or about as consequential as Carroll,
Or as about as consequential as the cremling windbreaker winds sums summoned just by the tweaking of the order of a few moves off the demoing freestyler routines.
And we are having breakfast with Jay Adams.
The Rollercoaster Grease Handrail Rail Off Drexel Ave in Atlantic City
Somewhere near the rollercoastering greased handrail rail somewhere off Drexel Avenue in Atlantic City,
Doping maggot T-Mags ams waddle swaddled in pregnant regnant logo,
Waiting to progenate overlooked variations of (post)modern bailiwick wheeler chores upon Bally arcade marker and ruin.
They, just all so recalcitrant from fostering a useful working tantrum of all their own psychological method and despair.
And an evil little stucco hubba blubbers in a pavillion on the edge of town right past the beltway,
As if sculpted by wobbly hand, if only to satisfy very minimum end of code, and it sits like a baked cake, as if it could be decorated with sour red icing that tastes like blue medicine for shell co telemarketers.
And a row of empty plastic Dr. Pepper bottles looking like empty robot eggs,
Stands incidentally flacking in a row on collapsible event table at a support group for those who lamented Matt Beach underrated.
And wasn't it bad enough—the meetings said not to even think about over-riding our drives, and the weakling first step for weaklings just had to be that one just simply had to wanly accept Matt Beach was always underrated, and we all just still had to somehow roll with it all powerless nonetheless.
And not only that, but no one could quite ever agree who was in fact rated fated appropriate.
"Troy Santana", I once proffered when sharing to the Gordian Knot of uneasy silence.
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