Under the bridge is where it seems this place
should belong. Full of trolls, red-skinned devils,
even clowns with mayonnaise and dead, skinned hookers,
laced a bit with powder (albeit for babies' butts or
entertainment otherwise.) Pass me the key.
Sordid-seeming smartwhips let their hearts come out to play
somewhere between obligation and a slipped
facade. Trophies, monies, colored names
offered like dirty tokens to merry-go-round in a frozen hell.
Rainbows wacommed with puppies, pork fat, dumbbells, beer and slime.
"Useless" just cosmetic veneer slovenly sloshed on
my crooked catacomb;
such my dirty little secret.
He disapproves of your illogical posts.
He swoops in to dispel any fun you may have by being silly;
for if you are not technically correct, you deserve no enjoyment.
He fights to be sure that this forum of uselessness, nay, the Internet, will be serious business.
Theac is the yin to craziness' yang.
Theac is balance.
My calendar pages turn faster than before.
I close my eyes and dream.
Wishing for an adventure that remains unseen.
I sigh and yield to the tedious regime.
Another year passes with so much left undone.