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L T S - Lark*s Vomit with Asterisk

 

L T S – Lark*s Vomit with Asterisk

 

 

Copyright 2017 Richards Hall and e.

Published by Richards Hall and e. at Shakespir

L T S – Lark*s Vomit with Asterisk

 

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|strange synchronicity|*

 

First, trivia. What television series revolved around these mirroring statements spoken over and over, one after the other -

 

I care about Allison. I’ll always care about Allison.

 

If you know that answer on sight, you gotta at least smile or smirk, right? Who was dopier, speaker or spoken of? If you don’t know the answer, ask an educated young person. They know everything.

 

Bonus, timely, trivia question. The same question minus a mirror -

 

Save John Watson!

 

Why don’t the main participants just get a room already? OH, they have? As the bells of obsticularity begin to sound out, I will be above them and proceed.

 

Let’s start with what strange synchronicity isn’t – strange. It’s not about ghosts, cold spots, hot spots, feelings of oneness, or things that go bump in the night, apart from big toes encountering immovable objects. When all five toes connect, that’s a little strange. It’s more about the numbers attached than the event.

 

Actually, almost any synchronicity is strange. And the biggest if not strangest, the most common of synchronicity? In the digital age, with digital clocks, it’s 12:00 appearing twice a day, billions of times, like clockwork. Along with 1:11, 2:34, and 3:69. Patterns, patterns and more patterns, synchronized. Readily explainable, but here’s an animal tracking number patterns for some reason. Godzillions of them. Billions of animals tracking billions of patterns. Is someone studying the phenomenon?

 

So what is other than strange synchronicity about? Is it about? Plants do it, birds do it, bee’s do it, fish in the seas do it. They eat everything, one way or another. They got a cycle going of pushing fuel down and outward. Or forcing it down when subject to eating boiled weed. Then maybe chucking it outward.

 

Truly, I didn’t see that coming.

 

Fuel? What the heck is fuel apart from energy? It seems the two get used inter-change-ably. Is fuel the potential to be energy? Is there synchronicity to the two? The three? Are they bonded?

 

Is strange synchronicity the people factor? Users or beings of potential? Vacuum/vortex beings voiding at-large information as the byproduct energy. Is EARTH a big, cosmic power plant? Or just the basement housing self-perpetuating self-destructive satellites of machinery?

 

Is EARTH a victim of the power plant creators? Or just a pawn?

 

Water water water. EARTH is a first necessity. Leave the realm of your ground to stand and you will lose the structural integrity needed to stand anywhere. I believe that to be a true issue with space travel. Standing is fun one, leading to walking, fun two, leading to skipping and running, fun three, leading to sports. At what fun count? Who knows? The cost is astronomical. No worries, you are worth it.

 

Me, I do enjoy sitting over standing, ideally with a beverage near at hand. I am of course an aberration.

 

If my physic’s source is accurate, the relationship of water to the planet is somewhat comparable to the amount of water clinging to you as you step out of the shower. It covers so so much of the planet but it doesn’t really go deep deep, much like mountains don’t get relatively much above sea level. On an accurate desk globe mountains would not affect the smooth and flat of the globe.

 

Back me up here, Neil. I’m being nice, I could get rude.

 

And what really takes precedence, the planet’s spherical shape or flat reality? Is it a draw? As for the folks championing spherical shape, there’s no question that they take precedence wherever they can. That’s what intelligence does, it takes what it can take. More-so when peons give it away. What intelligence doesn’t, is let go when it should. It’s not that smart.

 

Is there a good guy bad guy scenario to this? Or just big dumbo small dumbo? That may sound a bit high headed, but I repeat, and expand, as I am an aberration that is aberrating. I don’t know what I’m saying until after I’ve said it.

 

Did I just say that?

 

Actually, if you stuck dumbo ears on Paul Ryan you’d see Alfred E. Newman. What? Me worry? The big joke about Ryan is he’s not only anti-Christian, he’s anti-objectivism. The great illiterate cow-pie from cow-pie land, passing off copies of new and improved Mein Kamp to subordinate worms for inspiration. Another in a seemingly endless line of black holes letting no light in or out. Another next big worst-yet standing behind big bad darkness, as they propagate one another. Which is not to say darkness has to be big and bad. Enough darkness is a right helpful thing.

 

And you should think Ayn ‘the pain’ Rand when you think about Ryan, as she too, maybe she first, was anti-structural integrity and anti-conscience. She, or whatever, or whatever else she might have been, she got one big stew of lose going with her organized criminal ethos, devaluing responsibility to any and every connection – electricians take note. Me first, me always first. Me only ever. And when it comes to criminal ethos and organized crime, as explained with mentoring by the injustice conspiracy, there is nothing on the other side. It’s totally about pull until collapse. All fall down to the strains of super synchronicity and me, making super-crushed company. One fat unifying theory of fat and flattened.

 

The really big question is, how many degrees of separation exist between adult-ness and the Men?

 

Bringing us next and quickly to the question of grip. No doubt there is separation between old world me and new world whomever. Once upon a time when a little girl learned grip she was handed a doll. Young lady, mama says, time to start figuring it out. You already love babies, it’ll be fun.

 

Whereas a little boy is handed a stick and ball to scratch or point, and have fun and play, until they grow into heroes unto themselves and, if jocks, heroes to the swarming parasites making scratch off of the way they play at sticks, clubs and balls. Thus is dementia taking you down, ‘cause the big girls want to be just like the little boys. Manifest destiny as deserved as proclaimed by the over-vocal minority. The too many. Equal rights along with equal irresponsibility as feels right and good for as long as childhood can be extended and the market bares it.

 

So should I touch upon vomit? Touch it at all? What, again? Or larks?

 

I say, larks. Or cranes? As necessary to hoist dead and dying fat people? And heave. Thus vomit does get touched upon. Yet again. Nary an idea wasted or over-used.

 

Perhaps I digress. I’d work in egret, but it doesn’t really apart from a bond to regret.

 

There are two connections, lark-wise, one to adult music, one to adult comedy, where, alas, the adult is only in the creativity and performance, until stricken with dementia as to the value to the performers of their labors. Basking in lost, past glory is really enough of a full time job. At least that’s an observation based on under information. Meanwhile, music can sort of come back and keep or get itself fresh and working. Comedy sort of tires. I’m sure I get tiring.

 

Perhaps I digress again. But here’s something interesting about music, about the biz. If you write a review for Ticketmaster you have to give up your moral rights. I did it anyway but I’m wondering how far those lost rights can carry. I don’t want to end up a human centri-pad, that’s for sure. Read ‘em and weep either way. I doubt they’ll even print my review. I got nasty.

 

But I think you will agree, when it comes to strange synchronicity, I’m not much help, no matter how willing, and I’m not that willing either, and less, when you get right down to it.

 

Now you all make sure and have a nice day now, ya hear? Be it known, I did cut the country comedy and the wondering if those there singers were all really born in barns and would they ever make it to moon. It just seemed out of place. So we’ll skip it. Why not rather do sum’pin stupid for yourself on a lark? Or to a lark. It can be sort of fun even if you don’t know what you’re doing. FYI, I call my cover artwork Vomit 8, which was due to a typing mishap, and which is sort of gross if you listen to it, even if it does tie the pieces together. And isn’t strange at all.

 

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L T S - Lark*s Vomit with Asterisk

Yikes, I can't even begin to describe this.

  • ISBN: 9781370300365
  • Author: Richards Hall
  • Published: 2017-06-29 16:05:08
  • Words: 1484
L T S - Lark*s Vomit with Asterisk L T S - Lark*s Vomit with Asterisk