Lynk
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Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap

Lyrics - Fallen Angel

Poison - Fallen Angel, lyrics revived by Elliott

She stepped off the bus

out into the city streets

Just a small town girl with her whole life

Packed in a suitcase by her feet

But somehow the lights didnt shine as bright as they did

On her mamas TV screen

And the work seemed harder

And the days seemed longer

Than she ever thought theyd be

Dont choo know you got to stick to your guns

When it all comes down

Cuz sometimes you cant choose

Its like heads they win

Tail you gonna lose

Win big, mamas fallen angel-hehhl

Lose big, livin out her lies

Wants it all, mamas fallen angel-hehhl

Lose it all, rollin the dice of her life

Now she found herself in the fast lane

Livin day to day

Turned her back on her best friends, yeah

And watched her family slip away

And just like a lost soul

Caught up in the Hollywood scene

Awwll the parties and limousines

Such a good actress

Hiding all her pain

Trading her memories for fortune and fame

Just a step away from the edge of the fall

Caught between Heavel and Hell

Wheres the girl I knew a year ago

Win big, mamas fallen angel-hehhl

Lose big, livin out her lies

Wants it all, mamas fallen angel-hehhl

Lose it all, rollin the dice of her life

Too much too soon

Or just a little too late

Cuz when her ship came in

She wasnt there it just wouldnt-a wait

Win big, mamas fallen angel-hehhl

Lose big, livin out her lies

Wants it all, mamas fallen angel-hehhl

Lose it all, rollin the dice of her life

Win big (no lose big tonight) mamas fallen angel-hehh

Lose big, livin' out her lies

Wants it all, mama's fallen angel-hehhh

Lose it all, rollin' the dice of her life

Win big (No, lose big tonight) mamas fallen angel-hehh

Lose big, livin' out her lies

Wants it all, mama's fallen angel-hehhh

Lose it all, rollin' the dice of her life

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Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap
Lyrics - Fallen Angel
Poison - Fallen Angel, lyrics revived by Elliott

She stepped off the bus
out into the city streets
Just a small town girl with her whole life
Packed in a suitcase by her feet
But somehow the lights didnt shine as bright as they did
On her mamas TV screen
And the work seemed harder
And the days seemed longer
Than she ever thought theyd be

Dont choo know you got to stick to your guns
When it all comes down
Cuz sometimes you cant choose
Its like heads they win
Tail you gonna lose

Win big, mamas fallen angel-hehhl
Lose big, livin out her lies
Wants it all, mamas fallen angel-hehhl
Lose it all, rollin the dice of her life

Now she found herself in the fast lane
Livin day to day
Turned her back on her best friends, yeah
And watched her family slip away
And just like a lost soul
Caught up in the Hollywood scene
Awwll the parties and limousines

Such a good actress
Hiding all her pain
Trading her memories for fortune and fame
Just a step away from the edge of the fall
Caught between Heavel and Hell
Wheres the girl I knew a year ago

Win big, mamas fallen angel-hehhl
Lose big, livin out her lies
Wants it all, mamas fallen angel-hehhl
Lose it all, rollin the dice of her life

Too much too soon
Or just a little too late
Cuz when her ship came in
She wasnt there it just wouldnt-a wait

Win big, mamas fallen angel-hehhl
Lose big, livin out her lies
Wants it all, mamas fallen angel-hehhl
Lose it all, rollin the dice of her life

Win big (no lose big tonight) mamas fallen angel-hehh
Lose big, livin' out her lies
Wants it all, mama's fallen angel-hehhh
Lose it all, rollin' the dice of her life


Win big (No, lose big tonight) mamas fallen angel-hehh

Lose big, livin' out her lies

Wants it all, mama's fallen angel-hehhh

Lose it all, rollin' the dice of her life


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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Crossfade

down on the carpet roadways

moments edged just right; displeased,

but meaning poetry indescribably, harmlessly

to catch these sunlit flickers, cilia in the corners

of her eears, but grazes, villi disintegrated

haggard torturing,

my legs become dry

on the way dandruff flakes; like coarse synthetic,

fiberglass particles

‘sendmeandangel_Rightnow_riighhhtnowhow’

teeth biting chews pressurized together by

tongueing the whole gritty little shorts

vacantly swallowed,

pro-cessed up closer and closer

to eating the gorgeous little pieces

Yet barely squeezed

come out like the sun squints

and cinnamon scent of some grand lost memory

recovered in the eternity, graced

when the world leaves the planet,

occurs, holds, hyperventilating,

the first smooth thighs of a 90s girl

in the incredible whirling

solid hypnotic strobes of light

unbuttoning down where I was supposed to

look beyond.

The simple lies overcome

detrimental pinches of radii

enclosed soul twisted, turned twilight,

and by such stimulations

that radiated sinks into the way I can’t

send her into this place

where my heart endlessly compresses

in these sweet beams,

the way that girls’ eyes, alone,

bottom, and scarlet patches,

so young and so-ohh ugliness,

and imperfections

- before you world…..

turned over grunts in like ineffable suddenness.

Glance at thee lucrative luster,

Between that girl, wants

and --what wasted quiet focus, the contrast

language and that which stumbled out my head

in the easier rugged resurfacing

for a path to scrape, rub against

like pages every detail, wears her out

in charges reacting to them. Touch the switch.

to leave in the upstairs garrets

a power to just remove

the pencap; such required innovation,

capitulating Byzantines decoded past;

examples of success. Sicily. Syracuse.

Archemides. War machines destined

to repeat mythologies of downfalls unclear.

Harness the reconstructions written

in the sense of experimentation

with publications that made history

and Holy Shit! in one recorded, produced,

flood --and my hot heart

‘solonely!_solonely_!sooolonelaaayyy’

Defeat the same cancers

superfluous minds have created

and induced, the fallible apocryphal phthsis–

From amnesia and to calm frustration

of forgetting that

liveth with cameras, too much;

gross, fresh expectations

over the heart; a chronic stinging regurgitation,

reaches all sensations, with paranoia.

Mysteriously sour,

then compressed flares candelabra

these flows snuffed, like extinguished when

that raw just pinching rarefied irritations in various places

cross-fades the flinching heart afire,

in an uncanny emanating

layer upon layer coming undone

of prodigious irreplaceable wraps

being etched unapologetically, that unattainable

quality of cells burning off, much more than history,

and spectacular weaponry.

 

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Crossfade
down on the carpet roadways
moments edged just right; displeased,
but meaning poetry indescribably, harmlessly
to catch these sunlit flickers, cilia in the corners
of her eears, but grazes, villi disintegrated
haggard torturing,
my legs become dry
on the way dandruff flakes; like coarse synthetic,
fiberglass particles
‘sendmeandangel_Rightnow_riighhhtnowhow’
teeth biting chews pressurized together by
tongueing the whole gritty little shorts
vacantly swallowed,
pro-cessed up closer and closer
to eating the gorgeous little pieces
Yet barely squeezed
come out like the sun squints
and cinnamon scent of some grand lost memory
recovered in the eternity, graced
when the world leaves the planet,
occurs, holds, hyperventilating,
the first smooth thighs of a 90s girl
in the incredible whirling
solid hypnotic strobes of light
unbuttoning down where I was supposed to
look beyond.
The simple lies overcome
detrimental pinches of radii
enclosed soul twisted, turned twilight,
and by such stimulations
that radiated sinks into the way I can’t
send her into this place
where my heart endlessly compresses
in these sweet beams,
the way that girls’ eyes, alone,
bottom, and scarlet patches,
so young and so-ohh ugliness,
and imperfections
- before you world…..
turned over grunts in like ineffable suddenness.
Glance at thee lucrative luster,
Between that girl, wants
and --what wasted quiet focus, the contrast
language and that which stumbled out my head
in the easier rugged resurfacing
for a path to scrape, rub against
like pages every detail, wears her out
in charges reacting to them. Touch the switch.
to leave in the upstairs garrets
a power to just remove
the pencap; such required innovation,
capitulating Byzantines decoded past;
examples of success. Sicily. Syracuse.
Archemides. War machines destined
to repeat mythologies of downfalls unclear.
Harness the reconstructions written
in the sense of experimentation
with publications that made history
and Holy Shit! in one recorded, produced,
flood --and my hot heart
‘solonely!_solonely_!sooolonelaaayyy’
Defeat the same cancers
superfluous minds have created
and induced, the fallible apocryphal phthsis–
From amnesia and to calm frustration
of forgetting that
liveth with cameras, too much;
gross, fresh expectations
over the heart; a chronic stinging regurgitation,
reaches all sensations, with paranoia.
Mysteriously sour,
then compressed flares candelabra
these flows snuffed, like extinguished when
that raw just pinching rarefied irritations in various places
cross-fades the flinching heart afire,
in an uncanny emanating
layer upon layer coming undone
of prodigious irreplaceable wraps
being etched unapologetically, that unattainable
quality of cells burning off, much more than history,
and spectacular weaponry.
 
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0
0
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5 reads
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Lynk

The Middle

CLOSE TO COLLAPSING off the brick front ledge, a tremendous warp in the Little Caesar’s front glass. . . .rejected the middle of it all.

We walked through on a single worn wriggled dirt-bike tire trail; a snaked winding leaned off the shattered parking lot edge; through the empty corner, the lot back into the neighborhood that Sam and myself would trace bicycles into after stealing Skybox cards in the grocery store; in thee old Food Town; anyway, set back through the tiny forest or such next to the back of stripshop structures adjacent another, at the Little Caesar’s, at the very end, oh the corner set along the bright white-painted blockwall the trail ended; smoked there and whatnot; chowed on breadsticks and huge fountain drinks; smudged sauce in corner lips and lifted it, tongued back in. . . . and my body rejected it.

Between them trees - bike trails coursed too miniature, loose dirt mounds and ramps tracked almost unseen. So tiny and only inside the realm eww did we exist in glints, similar to those curious sights we would pierce through the dapple to hit the hills perfect; but neatly the same we’d pierce them same eyes (not Sam though) passing an orange glow shone brighter and brighter in intervals round opposite circles in the approaching moonlit darkness; me, Bowen, Garrison, Patrick Hamilton, this Mario Livingston, perhaps Elsie and a few of her girlfriends, others; toward and turned eerie, unreal, black-shadowed only, apparitions that bloodless night; when things came upon my head and mind and took control; and near crawled from the brick wainscoat with dried soil paste swallowing the altered haze, grease-cooked claustrophobia, up to the big orange glass window.

Inside, the neon reflected orange and busy bright confetti linoleum -blasted the timeframe, spread motion surrounded by fast-forward giggles as never before; these strange oiled somber faces mixed up the FRP stains and stainless steel between, goofed and ridiculous, stoned orange-eyed high crept and dizzied; so I went outside, me, onto the brick ledge with my palms down against the rough sidewalk, under the overhang; folded there to get blood back into my high head --pointed straight at the concrete; like all the circulation had stopped at the base of my neck; struck, twisted and distorted with the drizzled-in fantastic orange contrast melted, penetrating, the beams of the orange bright squints just instantly singed crystal visions of pizza putrefying.

Unfortunately, Mario, “man, I had the same thing happened last week. It was strange. I was like ‘never hitting a bong again’—to tell the truth I actually went like three days or so,” enlighten with this haughty voice and afro soft, and inserted impressions genuinely reflected, “but then I went to this Ekoostic Hookah party. Shit, I just fry myself from the funky fresh that clouded around me. . . . You aint weird - some things you just can’t figure out…… Hehe- You will break out of it here shortly, Lynk. Perhaps you too need music.”

 

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Lynk
The Middle
CLOSE TO COLLAPSING off the brick front ledge, a tremendous warp in the Little Caesar’s front glass. . . .rejected the middle of it all.

We walked through on a single worn wriggled dirt-bike tire trail; a snaked winding leaned off the shattered parking lot edge; through the empty corner, the lot back into the neighborhood that Sam and myself would trace bicycles into after stealing Skybox cards in the grocery store; in thee old Food Town; anyway, set back through the tiny forest or such next to the back of stripshop structures adjacent another, at the Little Caesar’s, at the very end, oh the corner set along the bright white-painted blockwall the trail ended; smoked there and whatnot; chowed on breadsticks and huge fountain drinks; smudged sauce in corner lips and lifted it, tongued back in. . . . and my body rejected it.

Between them trees - bike trails coursed too miniature, loose dirt mounds and ramps tracked almost unseen. So tiny and only inside the realm eww did we exist in glints, similar to those curious sights we would pierce through the dapple to hit the hills perfect; but neatly the same we’d pierce them same eyes (not Sam though) passing an orange glow shone brighter and brighter in intervals round opposite circles in the approaching moonlit darkness; me, Bowen, Garrison, Patrick Hamilton, this Mario Livingston, perhaps Elsie and a few of her girlfriends, others; toward and turned eerie, unreal, black-shadowed only, apparitions that bloodless night; when things came upon my head and mind and took control; and near crawled from the brick wainscoat with dried soil paste swallowing the altered haze, grease-cooked claustrophobia, up to the big orange glass window.

Inside, the neon reflected orange and busy bright confetti linoleum -blasted the timeframe, spread motion surrounded by fast-forward giggles as never before; these strange oiled somber faces mixed up the FRP stains and stainless steel between, goofed and ridiculous, stoned orange-eyed high crept and dizzied; so I went outside, me, onto the brick ledge with my palms down against the rough sidewalk, under the overhang; folded there to get blood back into my high head --pointed straight at the concrete; like all the circulation had stopped at the base of my neck; struck, twisted and distorted with the drizzled-in fantastic orange contrast melted, penetrating, the beams of the orange bright squints just instantly singed crystal visions of pizza putrefying.

Unfortunately, Mario, “man, I had the same thing happened last week. It was strange. I was like ‘never hitting a bong again’—to tell the truth I actually went like three days or so,” enlighten with this haughty voice and afro soft, and inserted impressions genuinely reflected, “but then I went to this Ekoostic Hookah party. Shit, I just fry myself from the funky fresh that clouded around me. . . . You aint weird - some things you just can’t figure out…… Hehe- You will break out of it here shortly, Lynk. Perhaps you too need music.”
 
6
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You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction

Before it Spreads

THE STRUGGLING has REACHED

thee ends -

to find some positive diagnosis;

the drained hologram,

the fatigue reddened shoulders,

undulating surges

that rapidity of thumb taps….

However it should happen,

to recover from some

knockout blow by Mezmerino

or whomever; there I want to refuel

and pick myself straight into

into all the depravation of tragedy

of salaries unattainable

and reality of art untouchable;

because in no way will I suffer

anymore,

plight.

Not so much scared of the Doctor

and whitecoats or even the tests

and treatments maybe,

the medieval tortures I shall be;

but the bill terrifies me.

Blow up the hospitals.

I could all curl, fetal,

writhing in pain

in the middle of

a claustrophobic operation..

But in the vacancy,

and the inability to feel good

endorphins coursing these veins,

as if my world has been

constructed, resurrected;

and through glorious paint brushes

just form me and my era;

go absorb with as much awe

as if time were so ancient

yet on the pulp a brand new text

as if Rome were still there

albeit in pieces; as if Atlantis surfaced

like my city … my people, my giving.

Anyway,

yeah so but not so much that I do not

want to suffer but I want to be remembered

for more than what he said to me,

“to see these places

that still exist. Ruins and remains.

And unearth the past and reconstruct

Things.” Oh how he turned to me

Then turned me away.

In so many ways, as if there

would be one . . . .

“well there are many tests

we can do. But without any

insurance, it can be real expensive...”

—“I would like to be sure

before it spreads….whatever it is.”

Oh don’t be silly, doc. It is nothing.

“Everything will be alright.”

Except the slow sinking feeling.

 

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You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction
Before it Spreads
THE STRUGGLING has REACHED
thee ends -
to find some positive diagnosis;
the drained hologram,
the fatigue reddened shoulders,
undulating surges
that rapidity of thumb taps….
However it should happen,
to recover from some
knockout blow by Mezmerino
or whomever; there I want to refuel
and pick myself straight into
into all the depravation of tragedy
of salaries unattainable
and reality of art untouchable;
because in no way will I suffer
anymore,
plight.
Not so much scared of the Doctor
and whitecoats or even the tests
and treatments maybe,
the medieval tortures I shall be;
but the bill terrifies me.
Blow up the hospitals.
I could all curl, fetal,
writhing in pain
in the middle of
a claustrophobic operation..
But in the vacancy,
and the inability to feel good
endorphins coursing these veins,
as if my world has been
constructed, resurrected;
and through glorious paint brushes
just form me and my era;
go absorb with as much awe
as if time were so ancient
yet on the pulp a brand new text
as if Rome were still there
albeit in pieces; as if Atlantis surfaced
like my city … my people, my giving.
Anyway,
yeah so but not so much that I do not
want to suffer but I want to be remembered
for more than what he said to me,
“to see these places
that still exist. Ruins and remains.
And unearth the past and reconstruct
Things.” Oh how he turned to me
Then turned me away.
In so many ways, as if there
would be one . . . .
“well there are many tests
we can do. But without any
insurance, it can be real expensive...”
—“I would like to be sure
before it spreads….whatever it is.”
Oh don’t be silly, doc. It is nothing.
“Everything will be alright.”
Except the slow sinking feeling.
 
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Working/_Title:Edit-2

Hope vs hope

Your destiny vs mine

Your heroics vs my heroics

2 protagonists

But im a literal

Starving artist 

A story that i

Will never happen

To organize

If only i could

Self actualize 

Create such beauty 

That looks nebula 

Instead of eyes

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Working/_Title:Edit-2
Hope vs hope
Your destiny vs mine
Your heroics vs my heroics
2 protagonists
But im a literal
Starving artist 
A story that i
Will never happen
To organize
If only i could
Self actualize 
Create such beauty 
That looks nebula 
Instead of eyes
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Ghosts Carousing Salvador

With extraordinary pieces of modern literature

all accumulated under the blue creativity;

soothing electric strains yet retaining a mood….

so it seemed we entered a room on the moon,

when, “Mmmwanna dim your soul?”

Sal scroll —simply aligned, synchronized,

autonomy in divisions subdued somewhere,

placed inside that gleam… he imagined me.

The juvenile concentrated at the art

of every attempt that will always not have enough

to live inside of every powerful movement;

and yet clearly expatiated his own;

which was just shorts with miniscule failures

somewhere in the mindsets,

glitches surfaced, coercing, juicing

thronging double-edged constrictions;

that, whether or not I wanted to face

the flashing certain anxieties and unexpected

flare-ups of irreversible corridors,

the permeations leaking to everywhere

inside of the overwhelmed Sal….

We were still solace

with Kalifornia credits scrolling

all to behold.

In the way Sal saintly pondered

me for a more legendary sort, “Mmm. Yes..”

His fresh shaved head turned 

from the refracted pinching,

the slipped little shakes right there,

tremors or fidgets in some unnatural

all-masqueraded kind of presence

going simultaneously imploring

the smashed couches where we were sunk,

“but only –

f’ if we get out of here.”

So he sprung up, off, a confounded theory

as if becoming thin air rolled over

for an idea, answer, or a reply from myself,

that was already from himself;

then about released a stinging of worms

persuaded in quiet galaxies, mesmerized

then blipped right on through, reached

all in some smooth rapid continuous change

of the aforementioned flints, then nearly evaporating

from the original nothing at all;

perplexed; and my admiration and admiration,

in itself, something really celestial, slouched.

“Weeee need to break from thee hum_Mediate silences

and despair of these commonplace sub-engrosses

in films and wee need ummmm—Inspiral Carpets,-----

Yes, summmm inspiring indeed.. some magic.”

Then electro-shocked, plopped

back to the mashed couch,

and with some arrogant flourish

challenged thee old halo, the incredibly flawless,

tightness to his own hues, and he reiterated—“?—

you’re going tomorrow—Is that right?”

I consented—“mmYou betcha. But That’s

tomorrow; and you know what they say

about tomorrows right?”— “hmm?”—

“It’s never today. But now, now now there IS

tomorrow for you, and no –or- no there WILL

BE tomorrow for you now!” he beamed

and gooned, he typified then amused

in using his typical thick fingers for quotes,

triumph, and thus squinted, “Tomorrow,” wondering

simultaneously like he stood vice versa

with something unearthly, commiserated inside [ifyoubelieeeved_theyputamanonthemoon_manonthemoon]

and showed some of them verges

altogether assumed in touches of wicked,

sly phases way inside the coupled eyelashes

of a scar and patch. a gapped portion in one lid. .

Poked everywhere,

showed complete awareness of sleek access

to a remarkable character roughly sketched

in a reality yet by some common acquaintance;

and, likewise, inescapable atmosphere;

enlightened as much as a Holden Caulfield –like

with ambition wilder then Cody Pomeray,

or clearly and fully sharpened, damn fresh rage;

Salvador Dali-esque fascinated fantasy, “weee should

see some mountains

just hanging way out the rounded edges.

Weee should see the waters shrink

away to gorgeous shapes. Wee should squash flints

of impossible things even telescopes could not contain.

And and and Wee should immerse in the sky

blending to night and reach the moohoohoon…”

bursts zap, but all smiles, retracted flames ignited,

his lips corner, revealed, crafty, unusually

there amongst an unabridged profoundness

he inspired real real good, whispering, “tomorrow,”

with condensed and confounded quotation marks

using his entire hands; as on the outside,

his outside and the only place I could ever see

the weakening heart-struck flashes,

with a quiet timbre, Sal lavish.

—“Ahhh for just a fragment, we should stop

THERE this time…”

and through deeper monumental elevations,

some intellect in some incredible filled spirit,

shrills released down his insides,

and Sal literalized it, ideally in fidgets

and minor tremors knowing exactly where

we were headed. As if Tomorrow

were to be very real and very very

possible.

 

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Ghosts Carousing Salvador
With extraordinary pieces of modern literature
all accumulated under the blue creativity;
soothing electric strains yet retaining a mood….
so it seemed we entered a room on the moon,
when, “Mmmwanna dim your soul?”
Sal scroll —simply aligned, synchronized,
autonomy in divisions subdued somewhere,
placed inside that gleam… he imagined me.
The juvenile concentrated at the art
of every attempt that will always not have enough
to live inside of every powerful movement;
and yet clearly expatiated his own;
which was just shorts with miniscule failures
somewhere in the mindsets,
glitches surfaced, coercing, juicing
thronging double-edged constrictions;
that, whether or not I wanted to face
the flashing certain anxieties and unexpected
flare-ups of irreversible corridors,
the permeations leaking to everywhere
inside of the overwhelmed Sal….
We were still solace
with Kalifornia credits scrolling
all to behold.
In the way Sal saintly pondered
me for a more legendary sort, “Mmm. Yes..”
His fresh shaved head turned 
from the refracted pinching,
the slipped little shakes right there,
tremors or fidgets in some unnatural
all-masqueraded kind of presence
going simultaneously imploring
the smashed couches where we were sunk,
“but only –
f’ if we get out of here.”
So he sprung up, off, a confounded theory
as if becoming thin air rolled over
for an idea, answer, or a reply from myself,
that was already from himself;
then about released a stinging of worms
persuaded in quiet galaxies, mesmerized
then blipped right on through, reached
all in some smooth rapid continuous change
of the aforementioned flints, then nearly evaporating
from the original nothing at all;
perplexed; and my admiration and admiration,
in itself, something really celestial, slouched.
“Weeee need to break from thee hum_Mediate silences
and despair of these commonplace sub-engrosses
in films and wee need ummmm—Inspiral Carpets,-----
Yes, summmm inspiring indeed.. some magic.”

Then electro-shocked, plopped
back to the mashed couch,
and with some arrogant flourish
challenged thee old halo, the incredibly flawless,
tightness to his own hues, and he reiterated—“?—
you’re going tomorrow—Is that right?”
I consented—“mmYou betcha. But That’s
tomorrow; and you know what they say
about tomorrows right?”— “hmm?”—
“It’s never today. But now, now now there IS
tomorrow for you, and no –or- no there WILL
BE tomorrow for you now!” he beamed
and gooned, he typified then amused
in using his typical thick fingers for quotes,
triumph, and thus squinted, “Tomorrow,” wondering
simultaneously like he stood vice versa
with something unearthly, commiserated inside [ifyoubelieeeved_theyputamanonthemoon_manonthemoon]
and showed some of them verges
altogether assumed in touches of wicked,
sly phases way inside the coupled eyelashes
of a scar and patch. a gapped portion in one lid. .
Poked everywhere,
showed complete awareness of sleek access
to a remarkable character roughly sketched
in a reality yet by some common acquaintance;
and, likewise, inescapable atmosphere;
enlightened as much as a Holden Caulfield –like
with ambition wilder then Cody Pomeray,
or clearly and fully sharpened, damn fresh rage;
Salvador Dali-esque fascinated fantasy, “weee should
see some mountains
just hanging way out the rounded edges.
Weee should see the waters shrink
away to gorgeous shapes. Wee should squash flints
of impossible things even telescopes could not contain.
And and and Wee should immerse in the sky
blending to night and reach the moohoohoon…”
bursts zap, but all smiles, retracted flames ignited,
his lips corner, revealed, crafty, unusually
there amongst an unabridged profoundness
he inspired real real good, whispering, “tomorrow,”
with condensed and confounded quotation marks
using his entire hands; as on the outside,
his outside and the only place I could ever see
the weakening heart-struck flashes,
with a quiet timbre, Sal lavish.
—“Ahhh for just a fragment, we should stop
THERE this time…”
and through deeper monumental elevations,
some intellect in some incredible filled spirit,
shrills released down his insides,
and Sal literalized it, ideally in fidgets
and minor tremors knowing exactly where
we were headed. As if Tomorrow
were to be very real and very very
possible.
 
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Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap

Lyrics - Kodiak

Zykos- Kodiak, lyrics revived by Elliott 

Their hands fill with coins, they run to make it cash, and leave the town, but the buildings form, they're so large, you must get on out. before there was crime, we could lie, now we haul ass off the bridge to hide, and down to the water, swim to the house. they are covering the corners and the reason, their search, it died. we are at home, in the living room warm and dry

But i can take it now, the erroneous and loud, all the beer and the oxygen, open up, look out, and breath it in, i want to be forewarned next time it's cut from the history books, and given no second looks, it's true things they follow form, i will not be around that long, i want to be left alone next time

Tastes change, hey look what's changing, look what's passed around, fake embrace it once, if it's good, spit me out, now you've covered all the corners and your richness blurs the light, we're here at home, in the living room getting high

I'm a baby now, need to be rescued every hour, with all of you here i know what's formed, move into that ship i'm on, i want to be left onboard when you drown. but it's covered up and pissed away, you rewrote it everyday, now i really know what's gone, at the movies all the ends are long, i want to be forewarned next time

Regroup, just take a hard look and get out. that's the surefire moment, you knew it, and you sit on down. you can't look down the road if you get behind. we are at home in the living room warm and dry

I keep on passing out, let me be awake as i'm carried out, through all the beer and the oxygen, open up and breath me in, i want to be left alone next time it's cut from the history books, and given no second looks. and it's true things they follow form, i will not be waiting long. i want to be down the road you're on when you say it's time, move ever upward 'til there's no going back in time. 

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Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap
Lyrics - Kodiak
Zykos- Kodiak, lyrics revived by Elliott 

Their hands fill with coins, they run to make it cash, and leave the town, but the buildings form, they're so large, you must get on out. before there was crime, we could lie, now we haul ass off the bridge to hide, and down to the water, swim to the house. they are covering the corners and the reason, their search, it died. we are at home, in the living room warm and dry

But i can take it now, the erroneous and loud, all the beer and the oxygen, open up, look out, and breath it in, i want to be forewarned next time it's cut from the history books, and given no second looks, it's true things they follow form, i will not be around that long, i want to be left alone next time

Tastes change, hey look what's changing, look what's passed around, fake embrace it once, if it's good, spit me out, now you've covered all the corners and your richness blurs the light, we're here at home, in the living room getting high

I'm a baby now, need to be rescued every hour, with all of you here i know what's formed, move into that ship i'm on, i want to be left onboard when you drown. but it's covered up and pissed away, you rewrote it everyday, now i really know what's gone, at the movies all the ends are long, i want to be forewarned next time

Regroup, just take a hard look and get out. that's the surefire moment, you knew it, and you sit on down. you can't look down the road if you get behind. we are at home in the living room warm and dry

I keep on passing out, let me be awake as i'm carried out, through all the beer and the oxygen, open up and breath me in, i want to be left alone next time it's cut from the history books, and given no second looks. and it's true things they follow form, i will not be waiting long. i want to be down the road you're on when you say it's time, move ever upward 'til there's no going back in time. 
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Santos

I dont want to

Perform this afternoon.

All i have

Is to sit in cubicles.

Find one small

Good thing,

And focus

On someone

In that form.

You will not be

Dancing in the fire

You want to set 

To this world.

Instead, running against currents

And the video surveillance 

That will

Tell the tale tomorrow 

Or them noisy neighbors

Perhaps when the media

Gets hold of this one.

What i am doing.

Right now.

Praying for Santos

As they rework 

A new dialysis port

To stabilize him

In order to resume 

radiation treatments.

Yet since the stroke

Thee old man has

Not told a story.

You want to die

Or go home?

Ay cabron,

No matter which winds blow

The lake is froze!

And the perch

Are mold...  

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Santos
I dont want to
Perform this afternoon.
All i have
Is to sit in cubicles.
Find one small
Good thing,
And focus
On someone
In that form.
You will not be
Dancing in the fire
You want to set 
To this world.
Instead, running against currents
And the video surveillance 
That will
Tell the tale tomorrow 
Or them noisy neighbors
Perhaps when the media
Gets hold of this one.
What i am doing.
Right now.
Praying for Santos
As they rework 
A new dialysis port
To stabilize him
In order to resume 
radiation treatments.
Yet since the stroke
Thee old man has
Not told a story.
You want to die
Or go home?
Ay cabron,
No matter which winds blow
The lake is froze!
And the perch
Are mold...  
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by Lynk in portal Publishing

The video

No one else in thEE young far-fetched world ever inculcated god-filled neighborhood flickering busrides out windows rolling down long ways to the actual grounds with the slightest spring once in legs as if anticipating destiny, that perhaps Dominic with home electronic video-camera fingered _dudelookslikealady_in such minimal viewports emulate and venturing to new-fangle, change, rapidly away with the musical movement and such so much; moved Mercurio right onward, through too, deeper in them than any monumental elevation, yet apt in some intellect, in some incredibleness, in slumber-filled spills released down the sides of simple facets overfilled, wired, truly soundtrack- conquered in a swarm off odd creations and consumed choruses when the birds took off. Around cameos. . . “Videos need not be outnumbered by the extras,” Merc burst, Pine Cone accompany in Caterpillar guitar from Nik's ears, accompany to graphic adventures we were all picturing; with forever standing next to and not in the camera, but exploding ironic blues, gratified, "Needs saturation and indulgence that everyone else will ever share," between them two blues, from bus windowed magnifying... but immediately from like -- the frosted--in tragic criss-crossed--scene that intro, conversion; wiped away words, him, me, Dominic filming--we fused to the controls.  

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by Lynk in portal Publishing
The video
No one else in thEE young far-fetched world ever inculcated god-filled neighborhood flickering busrides out windows rolling down long ways to the actual grounds with the slightest spring once in legs as if anticipating destiny, that perhaps Dominic with home electronic video-camera fingered _dudelookslikealady_in such minimal viewports emulate and venturing to new-fangle, change, rapidly away with the musical movement and such so much; moved Mercurio right onward, through too, deeper in them than any monumental elevation, yet apt in some intellect, in some incredibleness, in slumber-filled spills released down the sides of simple facets overfilled, wired, truly soundtrack- conquered in a swarm off odd creations and consumed choruses when the birds took off. Around cameos. . . “Videos need not be outnumbered by the extras,” Merc burst, Pine Cone accompany in Caterpillar guitar from Nik's ears, accompany to graphic adventures we were all picturing; with forever standing next to and not in the camera, but exploding ironic blues, gratified, "Needs saturation and indulgence that everyone else will ever share," between them two blues, from bus windowed magnifying... but immediately from like -- the frosted--in tragic criss-crossed--scene that intro, conversion; wiped away words, him, me, Dominic filming--we fused to the controls.  
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Frailty of

Because we had different destinies,

Serene in the rage

Myths and Fables oh yeas

-the carousing divided and tore apart

blink understanding

the alteration was complete.

a couple years later then when I was

15, puzzled upon this archetypical

went down to the gym of that elementary

to watch Jacob tear up 4th graders

and rage moves I had

switched hands down between legs,

or the way he twisted the pill

½ way behind to drop, up

between legs and double back

dribble down off his knee,

come up with pump fakes

and no-look passes

in silent white flurries

sprinkling those afternoons.

No content.

And always filtered but with majority

Of reaching my own senses

And in that awareness

Extends a roof or level

A lid covers my head.

Heavy in the architecture

Cloak and dagger the lost

In the forest

Minor moments consumed

And quiet, unnoticed

Leaned fence looking into the crick

Findings editing entries

Once in between the frailty

Of no comments.

Yet as if slow slipping

Amongst the distractions

The towering slide and powerlines

The heavy plastic and the sphere

Honed and damnit if I must

Exposed.

The frailty of being so

Removed from all

That surrounds me

The shuffling currents breaking….

Finally I remember,

Unfolds.

Wrecked from being so cool

Missing translations

And the strength of

That line I just scale

It is the negotiating

We measure those against

In agile operations of a vehicle

Fake plastic personas

And the wearing frailty of

Walking the cosmic black path

Way to the back

Of that park

Takes me back to an idea and plan

Carried further as if

Marooned on Glass Bridge

And tight-roping where there was

No edge.

In but failing to connect

Flanged constituents

For which, desperate albeit

Indirect; frictionless

In order to sustain

Some sort of invaluable claiming

And this impossible land

Had an impossible goal

Rectangle backboard, halfcourt

Double rim

And such generous claims

But doubtless challenges

The nature did change

Humble against hollow blind priveledge

And that which the failure

Provided for sacrificing

The parts in me

Failing to be writing

But maneuvering within the fetid

real thoughts gone back through

that flash, covered part, Trilby;

the patio off the VFW

and the path all buried beneath

the insignificant snow prints

we laid out,

somewhere beneath the whiteness

pictured the baseball field

just by the backstop, remembered

the past and the playground

among the swings and slides

and merry-go-round, but gazed deeper

to the steel poles curved up

to huge fiberglass whiteboard

with double rimmed hoop

and chain net gone.

All the kids said it went 11 feet

hard solid thoughts

of the frailty of ~swish.~

No contest.

Hello March

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Frailty of
Because we had different destinies,
Serene in the rage
Myths and Fables oh yeas
-the carousing divided and tore apart
blink understanding
the alteration was complete.
a couple years later then when I was
15, puzzled upon this archetypical
went down to the gym of that elementary
to watch Jacob tear up 4th graders
and rage moves I had
switched hands down between legs,
or the way he twisted the pill
½ way behind to drop, up
between legs and double back
dribble down off his knee,
come up with pump fakes
and no-look passes
in silent white flurries
sprinkling those afternoons.
No content.
And always filtered but with majority
Of reaching my own senses
And in that awareness
Extends a roof or level
A lid covers my head.
Heavy in the architecture
Cloak and dagger the lost
In the forest
Minor moments consumed
And quiet, unnoticed
Leaned fence looking into the crick
Findings editing entries
Once in between the frailty
Of no comments.
Yet as if slow slipping
Amongst the distractions
The towering slide and powerlines
The heavy plastic and the sphere
Honed and damnit if I must
Exposed.
The frailty of being so
Removed from all
That surrounds me
The shuffling currents breaking….
Finally I remember,
Unfolds.
Wrecked from being so cool
Missing translations
And the strength of
That line I just scale
It is the negotiating
We measure those against
In agile operations of a vehicle
Fake plastic personas
And the wearing frailty of
Walking the cosmic black path
Way to the back
Of that park
Takes me back to an idea and plan
Carried further as if
Marooned on Glass Bridge
And tight-roping where there was
No edge.
In but failing to connect
Flanged constituents
For which, desperate albeit
Indirect; frictionless
In order to sustain
Some sort of invaluable claiming
And this impossible land
Had an impossible goal
Rectangle backboard, halfcourt
Double rim
And such generous claims
But doubtless challenges
The nature did change
Humble against hollow blind priveledge
And that which the failure
Provided for sacrificing
The parts in me
Failing to be writing
But maneuvering within the fetid
real thoughts gone back through
that flash, covered part, Trilby;
the patio off the VFW
and the path all buried beneath
the insignificant snow prints
we laid out,
somewhere beneath the whiteness
pictured the baseball field
just by the backstop, remembered
the past and the playground
among the swings and slides
and merry-go-round, but gazed deeper
to the steel poles curved up
to huge fiberglass whiteboard
with double rimmed hoop
and chain net gone.
All the kids said it went 11 feet
hard solid thoughts
of the frailty of ~swish.~
No contest.
Hello March
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