Not Your Usual Penisinshula’s Swimming Like Telepathic Dolphins

Reflections in a Petri Dish — April 27, 2013

Dog Poet Transmitting…….
May your music never be lame and shit.
Well you got your Kohrean Penisinhula, if ya know what I meee\un. I got a Penisinshula too but I don’t use it much anymore. I’m pretty sure it still works, though I would have to take it for a test run to see, Probably someone will come along humming, “I got a Ticket to Ride” Hopefully it’s not a guy and hopefully I’m not humming “I got a Ticket to Ride” at the time. Even more hopefully, I hope it’s not Rob in WI listening to one of my songs and humming “MacArthur Park at the time”. I don’t want any sweet green icing flowing down on me, just because someone left the cake out in the rain, or no green aliens pissing in my ear and telling me it’s rain (oops, personal dialog alert!! You’ll probably have to go to the recent Smoking Mirrors comment section to see what I’m talking about.
Speaking about my terrible music, Rob, you might want to skip this section, I’m wondering if this film, “Searching for Sugarman” is any kind of parallel to why I never got anywhere with my music so far, except for my really bad engineering skills. Oldboy, if you still read here, I’m ready to go now. Sooo…….
What was I going to talk about today? Possibly this? It might cause me to wonder if it has anything to do with Germany wanting it’s gold back and not getting it for 7 years; “Like a Penisinshula sticking out into troubled hindquarters, I will ride you down…” Please let this be a deterrent, or at least a quick and effective response and let us hope Iran has plenty of them too. Let us hope Iran has plenty of them and that at least one of them gets shot right up John Kerry’s ass, with a Heinz Ketchup prelude in Mideast Minor. Don’t you just love it when the world’s biggest smallest creep cabal, behaves even worse than you expect they usually behave? I just saw a new example of this over at Michael Rivero’s What Really Happened site. This is what they’ve done to you America. This is something one really needs a Penisin (Don)shula or somewhere to put one in order to understand; I guess that means all of us. Here is something that will work for you if you are like The Strawman in “The Lizard of Oz”; “If I only had a brain”. This came out by a Paul Joseph Watson who got mentioned as a disinfo agent, which I never knew before. I did not get mentioned, probably because I make such bad music (grin). Damn! I beat that dead horse so bad that it got up and ran away like some kind of Penisaur (it’s only 99 cents and there’s no singing) was after it. Mr. Visible understands the American public. So… they went right from Boston to Colorado. Is there no one to free me of this meddlesome priest. That’s something to keep in mind when you think of no one being able to free you of meddlesome priests. I can hear all kinds of altar boys crying out in the not so Silent Night’s of the sacristy running from real life Penisin (Don) Shulas. We’re all running from something, real or imaginary and some of us are stuck in the world’s material flypaper. Am I funny yet?
This is probably why they are stuck on that flypaper. It’s not like you don’t have to be dumber than a rock not to get it all. You would really have to be dumb, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you? ♫I’ve got many Penisinshula’s to cross…♫ Oh yeah! I guess it’s something like being caught between a dick and a hard place and I don’t mean a one eyed monk, masquerading as a private eye.
Have you enjoyed coming here as much as I have making it possible? I’d like to think you have and that we can struggle one more day for many days, as we see all of these telepathic porpoise’s of demonstration swimming through the subterranean waters of our nightly dreams.
I keep getting flashbacks to places I’ve been, or think I’ve been. Maybe I was dreaming or maybe it is all the redundancy redux. On and on it goes. It’s gone on past every stage ever built in the Theater of the Absurd. Every evening you can see hordes of meddlesome priests waiting to get in, or waiting at the switching yard for the Midnight Transvestite Train to come in on it’s late night mail run.
It will take some number of us, committed enough to make all of this stop. It won’t take anything like a majority of us. There’s no point in being a voice crying in the wilderness unless you’ve got some four part harmony happening. I’m not talking about a skinhead barbershop quartet.
Our long awaited community is forming up now in the most beautiful new place I have never been to yet, with the helpful collaboration of the very best new friend I haven’t met yet, an unmatchable snake charmer, who’s looking for the land as I write these words. Once established, all of you still in your right minds are invited to join us. Maybe someone will even send me back my moccasins, if they’re not using then and we can dance in The Midnight Hour, as telepathic dolphins swimming in our own subterranean dreams. Most days I can hear real dolphins, crying out in the inky BP waters, of a dying Gulf of Mexico. For some reason they speak to me and have done so steady, since they all showed up at our place in Italy, during my crazy nights and days a few years back. ♫What a long strange trip it’s been♫ with lot’s of ♫Ripples on still waters♫ and no pebbles tossed from this end; so as not to be causing any imbroglios. I always like it when those readers, in search of new words that they haven’t gotten before, run into one.
My dear readers, those of you who have stuck by me and don’t hate my music or poetry too much (Man I can hear that dead (w)horse galloping, snorting in the still wintry days, of this new global warming ice age. We will have that community if I can get my (not a water) moccasins back.
Let’s make this short and not too sweet, before whatever I am on kicks in (grin)
End Transmission…….

there will be a radio show tomorrow night!


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