There once were some pigs north of Java, Whose warts needed a balaclava. Whilst a new study found, That their numbers were down; Endangered without
I feel the powder beneath my feet; A sickening howl to the south, But I know that I am safe And so I dance with joy.
At the bottom of the ocean, In a mariner’s trench so deep That Hillary could have climbed it, We pray that we will find silence.
The white storks glide across the sky, Migrating south in times gone by; But now like Burroughs in his funk, These flying beasts are hooked
They carved your name into my arm, I hoped you’d be my lucky charm. My body shakes, I’m wracked with pain, I won’t ever do
Let grief be her final Expression of love O angels, free swiftly The heart’s aching tug In stoic resilience She fought to survive With proud
Fast radio bursts come from outer space, We measure them and try to plot their trace; First thought to be some cataclysmic scar, Lost echoes
If Bowie were a scientist He’d have colonized the moon, And built an elevator That would have us there by noon. If Bowie were
We know that smoking pot can change your mind, That alcohol can wreck not just your life; A link between the two has been defined:
It was She in the singularity, who showed Her face at the beginning of time, who in the muted cacophonous explosion danced the guapacha.