Category: Lords of Boblimptock

This is Grinken Time …

In the AGE of BOBLIMPTOCK …

The kindred-dread of many minds,
spreading deeply from behind,
hurried voices soon shall find,
that rind,
left behind,
by the hobo kind.

You could have been a cocaine hero, raging with a voice of drymbly and bleeb. You could have sunk your teeth into tomorrow, but instead you sip the tea of old Keith and his barley excrement.

After many years my son, you will find the glory board and jump your way to SPRING MADNESS, as green shoots give way to chutes and ladders, and you get sad because nothing really matters. Your broken skull is potato skin to the gods, and your own morsel is but humble offerings to Chronos.

“WHAT TINGLIT MERCY IS THERE FOR THE THIRST-DURGEN?”, screamed Horz, the last THIRST-GURGEN and FIRST LORD of Tryb. He rode a horse of rage and fury, his saddle was made of onions and coal, he smoked a bowl after locking up his old man in the Sanikan, for a honey-bucket surprise.

As your limbs heal and your voice finds balance, the daughters of Histos will leave their pleasure caves and wander forth to find their mungit-mates. Sure, they will wrestle in mud pits for total busty dominance, but their bodies will be oiled and Brazilian style krazy, as driving Miss Daisy turns to Duel – best to pick up some extra fuel.

I can see the endings are empty too DEAR SON.

An age of fun and games gives way to consequences, and stumbling blocks, and crevasses hidden from the snow king.

Your meaning now is in BOBLIMPTOCK and those folk you can raise up to hunt scratch-dear and lamprey-rats.

So find that mud pit mountain dear boy, and seek out a lifetime supply of hookers.

Don’t feed a hobo …

He’ll stick around and find your wooden heart. As bird spray fills the air, his poop chute will overflow with whiskey time nightmares and beef jerky memories.

Your own gundiz-rune lover will have her tulip-pizza, and the straggling ghosts go awry.

Don’t feed a hobo …

His honey jar produces scandal glass. Tired street rats hunt the last parts to make it surrender, but the scourge of dorg-ass fills the sky …

And your walnut-house woman lives her best life, in the smoke and ashes of this take home menu.

And no scorn.

If you feed a hobo?

The 5 paths will split into 6.

6 will be divided by 2, giving 3.

3 cloud monsters will hunt the dark minstrel, as the clowns scurry deeper into the heart of the Earth. Guide stone fury fills the seas and the boiling spreads and the one eyed bird sings.

If in feeding a hobo, you find yourself stuck with a house of pain?

It was your vain attempt at domesticating the beast. His YEAST fills the caverns and spreads the infection, and your own inflection point is reached, as you scream:

“FUCK YOU HOBO, GO FIND THE SCARRED QUEEN AND BE HER SERVANT!”

But tears in reality break the scheme, and shame of insane trolley masters sends you careening towards doom. Get off the tracks? – not for you snack stranger, not for the gumpton-flesh either.

The hobo will find his veal stew.

A typical hobo carries switchblades and Vietnamese money.

He wields the battle axe, hunting street bear and grouchy fishwives, all looking for easy style Kentucky love nests, all hungry for beef steak tomato.

His chest is covered in dead yellowjackets, and his veins flow with Trixie dust fancy. He is ready to pick up that lead pipe and take a swipe at any old lamp herder. He is willing to steal your Casper wench, and lead the STROHGLIN-VOLK to safety, where she is, in the storm drain.

Hobos sing songs of forever time …

He hears the whispers of dying hooker soldiers, all tired from the battle and awaiting Valhalla …

He gets into swordfights with the pirates of Slyb, as the ever changing coordinate system wreaks havoc with his navigational beacon … tiger-swamp women are still after him, dressed in stripper uniforms and carrying dildos covered in lube.

The hobo knows how to speak dog and cat.

The hobo holds meetings and the pigeon and wolf attend.

At the great turning of night to day, when space captains find darkness in the dawn? – the hobo wanders the FEAR DESERT and haunts the boomers at WALMART and HOME DEPOT. He gives you that LOOK, and you clutch your purse, your wallet, and you keep walking … “just keep on walking”, is what you hear the hobo say … as his face crinkles, and the sadness glows.

HOBOS are CLEAN by being UNCLEAN.

They have the flesh of leather and dirt. Monkey-fungus fills their bones and their minds are filled with ant larvae and tardigrade stink bugs.

Their hands shake from drinking, and thinking, at last they might find a place? A home?

But they roam because they cannot stay, and their day will come when the earth opens up and the demon army rides on crystalline rivers and armored hippos.

So don’t spend time waiting for hobos to SAVE YOU – they got time for no one, and not YOU ever.

They will form clunket-armies soon, not far from where you shop for whale supper.

They will sharpen sticks, and pick their noses, and build campfires of Styrofoam and treated wood.

You will hear them howling minutes before they come, you will see them scowling as you grasp your fancy gun, the sun will shine one last time for frolicking code monkeys and stern looking house maidens …

But nothing will be heard as the fire spreads, and no more time for chicken McNugget heroes.

Can you find some time for fresh water living?

Can you cook a soup of marrow and snake?

Can you grow possum-fruit in the gutter, because your mutter is no longer here? – she drank too much beer in the bowery with pops …

If you can? – can you see what it’s doing to you.

Your freshly minced and diced conundrum.

So don’t feed the hobo.

Don’t be afraid to die.

Don’t feed the crying aqualung …

Don’t speed past your dreams, as the seams split.

Because nobody is waiting for you.

And nobody keeps the light burning, except you.

Men want women that tangle with fire … That stand at the gate, you know they can’t wait.

Men want women for the wanting and the hustling, it’s a game of chance, a fancy new groove, she’ll bring the lube and you can’t stop the house from shaking.

Men want women who live in the sky, carrying their timber wolf selves in their pocket, with a rocket, and a chain … one they attach to their slave named Blain.

Men want women that wear leather over the heart, with stern will and stubborn gaze, they braise the pulled pork patty with a love-blow.

Men want women who know about soup and stew and baked bread, they want women that can do math and build a plane and bring you joy, you know this baby.

Men want women who are warriors and queens, that will fix our machines and cook us a nice hot meal.

Men want women who stand real tall, look good at the ball, and have a shot group that’s super small.

Men want women of iron and lace, who carry burdens without care, their pie wins the state fair.

Men want women who stare into Hell, shaking their booty, and ringing that bell …

We want the woman of the forest, hairy legs and shorgon-fluids dripping from her moistness …

We want women to be the pincer movement of spirit, where mother-boys give way to men, and lost socks are found.

If you make a healing salve,
from dead cat and old calf,
you bake the bread of bone and blood,
then chisel out your rendered cud …

And from that soup,
your mind will see,
a healthy face,
for all to see.

Refrigerator parasites,
living in a hole,
smoking a bowl,
losing your broken soul.

Tired of the sky pain,
living in the toxic rain,
the MAN says I’m insane,
but he ships in crack cocaine.

I pedaled on my trike,
undeterred by the slog,
and roaches chased my ass,
as I swallowed broken glass,
and the sun was nowhere near,
my urine filled with beer,
the old duded called me queer,
and his insults? – they did seer,
in the juices,
for the gooses,
stepping out, on, truces.

Your mind laser did a thing,
and then my cell phone rang,
“Charlie McGibbons gets OUT TODAY!”,
OH, YAY!
We’ll have a spread,
where they bury the dead,
crazy ZED will cook up the meat,
in your seat,
staring at the bacon heat,
and living on jizzle-gases and grease.

I sped by with cherished ease,
the sleaze followed me,
beyond the sea,
beyond the hills,
tormenting me and my bell bottom spirit.

And candy man nightmares stare,
dithering bad boys lay siege to Grinken Town,
the mayor frowns as desert winds blow,
and you are on the go,
not too slow,
with your trike – one gear, never fear.

The dark soldier lurks nearby,
you can hear his horrid sigh,
a slouching beast of iron and smoke,
he ain’t no friendly bloke.
You think you’re broke?
wait till the deals are made,
wait for the KOOL-AID,
wait in the musty cave,
it will be your grave,
and the soldier will give a speech,
storming that final breech,
Nordic whores stand at the gap,
sitting on your lap,
you tired old sap – it’s crabs man.

“I SAW THE MOON PRINCE!”,
said Sadie Bintz.
Her heart is clotted,
her mind engrossed,
a book left open on her desk,
some paper written,
ripped,
soaked in cow’s blood and glitter,
she doesn’t litter,
she takes those bodies to the landfill,
after she and her cat have had their supper,
then she takes an upper,
and passes out,
massaging her boovula.

The TRIKE sped on,
from old burnt tree,
to New London Town,
a gaping wound,
an out of tune song,
you long for the stew,
of dead cat and mold fern,
a stern goo,
that you eat on your feet,
and you stand blindfolded,
on the edge of the WORLD,
a heart spun too fast,
a dandelion in the grass.

The frontier is dead,
the tires are melting,
the snow is haunting,
a grease is spilling into the stream.

A mind BEAM glows,
as coastal cities swarm with rats.
And the BAT KING stands tall in BOSTON,
as cast iron critters deal cards in VEGAS,
and the last of the sewer monkeys builds his rocket,
something in his pocket,
labeled: “LOVE”.

“SHUNT THE CUNT!”,
cried Milly Stamp.
She ruled the final quorum,
she had a hopped up forum,
her spirit was geared for dance,
but her enemies road black horses,
they whispered tired old lies,
they wandered mystery courses,
and had ships of jelly and sawdust.
Some rusty old MONK,
slunking to the docks,
drunk on muskrat wine,
looking for a good time,
sees Milly and stops …
For a night,
for a drink,
till he sinks below the waves.

I fell asleep by the stream,
reflecting eyes of darkness seen.

I cursed my land,
I fed on sand,
my jaundiced heart could not start,
so YOU left me to die,
in the snow,
far below,
and yet I still crawl towards the fight.

I filled my cup with forest green,
and sent the poet three more notes,
lost in noise,
hanging with them boys,
too many broken hearted,
too many fierce hounds,
sleeping on the ground with our hooker lovers,
not too hard,
pull that shard from your windpipe.

You shouldn’t drive a CAT D6 naked to 711 to buy ZIMAs … you can … but you shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t test the waters … the waters are filled with giant lamprey that suck out your blood and bring you to a dark cave where helmet monks and mungo-freaks sing songs of never ending torment … so NO … you shouldn’t man.

You shouldn’t turn your nose up at CHEVRON food. Maybe CHEVRON FOOD is the only oasis for some of us in this food desert. Maybe canned food contains all the nutrients and heavy metals you need to live a full life … you don’t have to be an ass about your organically grown potatoes … go eat a cold can of chili, and live!

You shouldn’t hang out with DORBO-HERDERS from quadrant-2. Their minds are confused by crescent berry love making and genital mold. Don’t …

You shouldn’t do what your wife tells you to … choose the path of heroes and ignore her banshee screaming.

You shouldn’t “bend your knees” when you’re lifting something heavy … you JERK IT … just twist it … with your lower back … and then take the disability AND the Percocet.

You shouldn’t rent movies because Dane Cook is in them … I know you want to, so you can round out your night of binging CREED songs … but don’t. People already know you have crabs.

You shouldn’t go to Ramona’s on Friday night. Sure, you met her at Denny’s, and she has nice boobs … but don’t do it … she is a huntress and a cum maiden … she wants to grow your protein morgis in her towel closet. And you might end up falling in love, but her ex-boyfriend, Gary, is probably going to kill you and steal the baby and Ramona.

You shouldn’t mess with the witches of YOOBLOSS. They carry hiss viper swords and look to the mud paddies for their swirling and gusto filled lesbian orgies … come on man.

You shouldn’t grow that plant. That plant was sent here from DEBRIZ-PRIME in the Gromulan Sector. If allowed to thrive here, the python and the snakehead and the squirrel will rule over QUADRANT-GYPSY in REGION-DOOG … and then comes the hooker wars, that necessarily bring on Cthulhu and the KEK rebellion. Stop it with that fucking plant you bought on sale at Home Depot.

You shouldn’t go up to a woman in a bar and say “hey baby, want to sample my black and tan bean pudding” … you can say it … just might not work.

You shouldn’t listen to Linkin Park or 3 Doors Down or Nickelback … You shouldn’t listen to CREED or STRYPER … if you listen to COLDPLAY, then your mind is contaminated and your woman is a whore. Fuck off with your “world music”, I don’t care. Fuck you … fuck CREED.

Don’t use FACE FILLER …

You shouldn’t get surgery …

You’d think I’d stop hunting the grog-freaks and the donut-toads.

You’d think I’d give up revenge schemes and stop sniffing glue …

At my level?

I don’t use condoms …

Women should be overjoyed to have my stroog-spunk percolating in their grape lab …

At my level?

I need women, 20 of them, to clean my house. They clean all day, and cook, wearing t-shirts, and flip flops, and that’s it … no underwear … nope.

They bend over a lot, and I sneak up from behind – it’s so romantic and sexy … Quest for Fire shit … right Rae?

At my level? Women spend days, scantily clad, in a jungle prison run by busty lesbian prison guards … just to do battle with each other in swamp pits in order to be my cum blanket. That’s my level TATE … or is it taint?

At my level?

I have swelter holes, filled with ky jelly and tabasco sauce, and my women massage themselves and become spicy in the hope that ONE OF THEM will bear my next tube spawn …

At my level I have women who fight each other, randomly, to compete for the joy of wazzalling my deeg-shaft … and that’s HUGE.

At my level?

Women cum from miles away, just to smell my rotten underwear and my old sweat rags and dingly-cloths …

At my level?

My dingus-fruit is gathered by greased up milk-maidens, ungunjoolating themselves in the pouring baths where gapes are cleansed by cream and wheat style whiskey …

At my level you would get it.

We had “magic fingers in the bed” – you are lost.

New pickup line …

“Hey winter-mouse, if you’ll be my love sweater, I’ll be your spunk cannon.”

Ladies: would this work on you, at the bar?

YANTIS moves fast down the trail, the one behind your house. He hears your farts and counts your poops. He seeks after hustler jelly and hooker style anal hookups … with lasers … and hydraulic lifters.

I’m gonna start raising coyote/raccoon hybrids … it’s gonna be the NEXT big pet … except for the weird Ecuadorian parasites they will carry and their minds being filled with ball bearings.

Coycoon or Raccote … any name suggestions are welcome.

I need to plant hoil-beetles, and harvest the nutt juice from cactus-hawks. My women will massage their boobies as they plant corn in their nunya-pit. I can see myself riding a brown horse of enormous size, and packing a 12 gauge hand-cannon called “Nectar of Peet”. Sure, I might get stuck in my own power-hassle, but my love-cadre will give me spunk-clans and other rort-cream.

Your crevice brings pain …

Dingle-berry super heroes line up their SITES to find your CRINKLE-ZONE, and you hide it, even in those YOGA PANTS you wear to STARBUCKS. We see the oils, and the drips, we can sense your baby clock is reading HIGH NOON and it’s high time you had some Spluncton style snake magic.

Snake magic is a special kind of GOOF. You won’t know your own sploof-fig after the rine has been removed and the seagrass blooms. Your HERO SLAVE is done setting up the chains in the woodshed, and your missile-jackson style lover is waiting in the shower, for some “Kelly Clarkson” style love dancing.

I could hold on to your crinkle zone, bearing upon it the great weight of my lead pipe. But your heart is too free pretty bird, and your mind is fit for apes.

My own sklebick-energy could not compare to your HOLE SPECTACLE … Your power juice weaved its ways into my broken hear, and sealed the cracks, releasing CREVICE SORCERY and anal magic.

I could have been a master of THROG-DOORS …

But your whorish ways led me astray, and I found nothing but pills and swamps and lost cowboy fondlers, wanting back into your pants … your crevice gold.

Cantor?

With your infinite sets?

I don’t need your pseudo mathematical bullshit, when here grease river flows, like turtle gravy – and there’s no HOE STOP for granny town types and hicksters from Memphis.

MARK MY WORDS: your hole is for the skeeg-mice.

Puddle flower …

Your purple eyes spoke volumes, as your body sunk beneath the surface of those love-oils. You would take your luxurious bath, as the swans sang songs of bad ice. And NOWHERE is your lover SWAYNE … and nowhere is his herpes.

Most of you are mungit beasts, you will feed upon tripe with the ghost priests.