I'll no longer be posting here... too many facets of my life make updating confusing.
You can find all you need to know at MUSTACHEFABLE.COM

Ah, what a great opportunity to share with the masses. I was interviewed on Arirang Radio here in Korea and shout out across oceans to the greater world at large.
You can hear the interview on Soundcloud.
http://soundcloud.com/danielle-arsenault/arirang-interview-with-chan-ju

For those of us who make things happen...

http://soakyourlifeinmusic.wordpress.com/

I was so wonderfully involved in a project to capture the essence of why people become so attached to music as it fuels an integral part of each individual's experience on this earth.

As Joshua Fernandes, an amazing human being himself, writes:
"In such a busy megalopolis as Seoul, where we live bombarded with sound, we often choose to take refuge in our personal auditory sanctuaries, but once the earbuds come out are subject to the same atmosphere as everyone else."

For this occasion, I wrote a poem...

SOAK YOUR LIFE IN MUSIC

Music of the rhythmic masses transcends above all races
In the heartbeat of the wanderer, the stuck, the loved, the faceless
The measure of vibrations can be heard in many places
from the first song birds that escaped from out their cages
to the triumphant celebrations in war and peace throughout the ages
And in the hum of modern life and patterned footsteps on the pavement,
bass bellows from the bowels and treble runs it rapid cadence
Listen carefully and you’ll hear the rhythm pulsing though the matrix

Music is a tool that gives you the permission to feel
Imagination or reality, these emotion roused are real
Boogie, jump, jive, shimmy, cut a rug
Foxtrot, prance, promenade, do the jitterbug
With an educated ear and higher sense for quality,
Move to the beat with your heart on your sleeve

Choose it
Dance to the impulsive infusion
Let it uplift your heart in its profusion
Light your feet on fire and lose it
And soak your life in music!

Carmel Point by Robinson Jeffers

The extraordinary patience of things!
This beautiful place defaced with a crop of suburban houses-
How beautiful when we first beheld it,
Unbroken field of poppy and lupin walled with clean cliffs;
No intrusion but two or three horses pasturing,
Or a few milch cows rubbing their flanks on the outcrop rockheads-
Now the spoiler has come: does it care?
Not faintly. It has all time. It knows the people are a tide
That swells and in time will ebb, and all
Their works will disslove. Meanwhile the image of the pristine beauty
Lives in the very grain of the granite,
Safe as the endless ocean that climbs our cliff. - As for us:
We must uncenter our minds from ourselves;
We must unhumanize our views a little,
and become confident
As the rock and ocean that we are made from.

A Curiosity Coo
A “coo” comes out. A coo turned sigh turned exasperated yawn-awe.
As white snow melts, spring thaw is revealed warming the air and inviting cold cramped hands to stretch towards curiosity.
Curiosity, our motive to question as our needs supposedly cultivate and expand for yet another season approaches. Sales come to fruition and tempt us to purchase what we already have
Curiosity, intrinsically overwritten by One Big Head and Two Big Head who hand out free manipulation muzzles all the while the irreplaceable capital provided by nature remains the same, albeit diminished a little further this time.

All encompassing closed circuit security cameras catch the omniscient eye,
Raw and unadulterated nature in its inevitable wake from winter sleep rises out from brown cracking vines upon vines veiled by the warming air and soft green-tipped buds register wisdom in forms anew.
Glue.
Once again, we become glued to advertising money mongers, witch tricks disguised. Our adult education.
Glued to the thoughts of hard belts behind.
I convince myself, No tie, no tie down.

The abundance of old trees, old rusty farm equipment and even old buildings awake from their refrigerated slumber,
Don’t shun the leafless tree, climb it. Climb it for curiosity.
Grubby hands tough to please, touch to please. Touch to see that this way is that way and that way is golden.
Care for the coo. Relish the coo as it pukes gently out, sputtering out of twisted lips of Freudian slips.
Our struggle with stuff is merely liquid flow in due time; a forecast of unspoiled fire crackers; the unadorned truth composed upright.
Spring time surrenders struggle and people reborn in mass hysteria send blind eyes upturned and unwavering under ever-growing circles of vultures proud and thirsty.
Pure fantasy relinquishes reality scorned.
Better keep a move on
Better keep a move on

I bring Dionysus in; I dine him and tell him jokes. He lies with me under the red wine covers behind the rum endowed curtains and reminds me not to take things too seriously.
Dionysus laughs, this life, after-life, immortal-life laugh. His laughter enables him to climb the leafless tree effortlessly. Never scampering nor scratching. Just laughter itself propels up through ineffable undeniable breath.
He reminds me to live in laughter and this will in turn unglue me.
Was I glued? Am I glued?
The coo comes out again.
Not bird like but unmistaken. Not innocent but out of Eden.
A coo of thanks,
A coo for truth revealed; a truth that sets me free.
Springtime trees with hidden leaves
are clues which form the question of all time.
The rainbow of all questions.
And in this question the word “curiosity” lingers with laughter.

A Day of Plato‏
Magpie me singing in the bellows of the cave d'ignorance
Magpie me hears Jackdaw caw ridicule from the darkness within
Oh Muse, purge forth unadulterated, uncensored
Divine madness, comfort forbidden thought.
Amuse me, Muse, with music and flaunt the key to the good life.
As we question in hopes of understanding,
The invisible world warrants the most intelligible interpretation
even though individual opinion shouts out complex cacophony
to lead contradiction in a battle of blood and bones on the divided line of balanced opposites.
Knowledge on paper is silent and cannot defend itself
Written word loses potency in subjectivity
Knowledge is everything and nothing and lives in constant motion in this satisfying duality.
To justify true belief, "real" need not be tangible as tangible is fleeting.

The Lost Lemon Mime. Fifth Edition
A collection of selected poems
© 2007 by Danielle Arsenault

Poems:
A vision of fission
What is foo
Wait for it or run
Lonely cigar (extended)
Just In Jess Ee
Drunken nights confederation
Stream of consciousness
Capa de ozono
Floating
Lust fervent
Urgency
Please no. No gracias
Another lonely night of scribbling to myself while the party pounds in the foreground
Streets to Beach
The next Che
Keepin’ it Real
Girl Kissed Pin Pricks
Soft
Santo Coyote
Maruata, Michoacán
Of endearment
In a Placito somewhere
For all adjectives may rhyme
Scribbles of the Red Pen
We are the Keepers of Ground
Foreign Fronts
The Race of Contemplation


In a Placito somewhere
A fear of something else penetrate in the minds of eyes blinded by
The emotive feeling of the emotive feeling
Hoping, stopping, brick lay blocking
The birds flocking in attendance to eat junk food passed by swollen hand of salt may be for he is cooing naturally

Cuadritos pierce slight sight
Through lenses of one shade too dark
Los edificios en las esquinas
Temporarily render me quietly purposely admiring for a moment of pleasure
Don’t dare toss ship toss trash talk trash
My design admired from unfair stares to invisible prayers left hanging in a hot box
Un ruido que me molesta
Por favor basta, pero contesta
Y nunca viene hacia mi direccion
Una pluma se siente enfrente de mi
La unica que puedo ver.

“He’s cool” she thought, but the pigeon forgot that the wings of the airplane were paper
Kiss happy, machete dirty
Interruptions through thoughts of purity.
My mind over takes me, what can I say
Spitting quick phrases to put on display
And then we stop, thanks a lot.


Scribbles of the red pen.
red pen to fight lyrics in my mind of unproductive patience belayed high upon rock grandeur
they call upon the tide to rip out passion peaceful
they call upon la gente, gently
they call upon savage sex unfulfilled

as smoking stays hungry in my lungs on Friday night
where red wine stains lips near teeth beneath stories of plenty

another tainted glass tickles thoughts as I can’t stop from coming.

Hazy linger
No breeze
Too easy
Crossing legs where too tight panty protection is necessary from panty missing

Impromptu cover catching readiness in the darkness of jealousness

Tricks in the bay - save that special place - save grace

Music hits precious spots closer than poetry knocks the shit out of lyricists
Cause the casual populace appreciates reproductivity, familiarity
Close home comfort hypocrisy

Wisdom sleeps in shadows and we all share in decay
Bésame mucho en las sombras de la noche
Stop and think a little more, amor
Dangerous, dangerous

We are the keepers of ground
We are the keepers of ground,
grounded in sound of stories stopping
and drunk nights rubbing up and down

the army of ants surprises tries of tranquility beneath me
don’t get attached – why do they always say that!
Intoxication kills sensations of physical pressure pleasure

Back and forth
Unexplainable
Unattainable
Energies of intensities and this wild wind intrigues me and my secrecy
Nos preguntamos las cosas
Pero, quedamos en cómodos y tenemos suerte en esta vida compleja
Funny feel good button pushing hungry
Quiero reir contigo mas

Foreign fronts
I saw the prison coloured home fronts
Shutter shut store fronts
Bared window common cluster
Sitting on the concrete pad. Abused by foot and funk
Million steps, billion steps
Smothered smother smushed
Graffiti round the wind again
Time wasted watching.

I saw the lookout
panting panic in the post dusk air
Oh, unaware of the blond girl above
Imaginations to be of great velocity

I saw the bird
Low hum from the ants reaping a life
Their dinner
A soul has exited
I pay my regards, lost and foreign in this city again…again.

You are all so very lucky...but...we hope you are patient.
Soon, o so soon, Danielle's 5th poetry chapbook, The Lost Lemon Mime, will be on the market. It is in the editing process as you read this. If you want your very own signed copy...email the artist herself and she will reserve one for you. Yes, You.

The photo below was taken by local Monterrey photographer Cruz Gonzalez in a local park. To see more of his fabulous compositions, visit: http://flickr.com/photos/geniuspix

So Exciting!
A night of hot erotica fills the air on February 14th, 2007 at Casa Amarilla in Monterrey, Mexico as Danielle spits some new stings.
Este cabaret erotico: con poesia, danza, fotos, performance y musica en el dia del amor y la amistad.
Be prepared to sweat...

NoD Magazine is delighted to inform the public that Danielle's poem entitled "cautious sitting skipping itching" has been accepted for their 6th issue. The launch party is on January 5th, 2007 at 7:30 at the Carpenter's Union Hall in Calgary, AB.
Danielle is (more than) pleased to be published in this wonderful magazine, that supports Calgary's wacky free thought literary scene, for the 3rd time.
Here she blows:

Cautious sitting skipping itching

Slip skips in lost pages
seeing distant belly bloated.
Chuckles from a man
saliva drips.

Slowly walking offers cautious caution to be exercised
as mighty tiny ants feast on my supple skin
sitting in a quack grass forest.

Park peace is deceiving
just as truth and her elastic legs stretching beyond the confinements
of fine questioning.

Slow bumps fast form on fresh flesh exposed.
No one knows the future who owns the past
profile pensive not to itch.

A deeper meaning in writing secreting literary devices of spies in the night.
Peering through Mexican windows
of doors held open
by uncontrolled forces
and daydreams linger spine chilling.

If you never had the chance to see Danielle's performance at Casa Amarilla in Monterrey on Day of the Dead sharing the stage with the ghosts of Pablo Neruda and Anne Sexton, there is another opportunity. This time, however, she will be spitting her words in collaboration with Milo Tamez. Milo is a local improvisational genius whose swift hands and fat beats on percussions of many influence the darkest dears to groove in slience.
On Saturday, December 9th, 2006...Cafe Trece Lunas...Abasolo 876, Barrio Antiguo. Monterrey, Mexico...9pm.

Look forward to the next issue of Eleventh Transmission online. The Calgary arts, culture, media and activism zine.
Some of Danielle's flat splatter flatter spoken word on a page sting poetry will be featured in the november issue.
The purpose of Eleventh Transmisson is:
To showcase local artists and thinkers, in all genres and forms of words and visual art.
To deconstruct the borders that delineate the genre distinctions and class divisions of poetry (and other forms of art). To bring T.S. Eliot into the street and 2pac into the classroom.
To be socially aware and engaged.

Art and poetry have no borders...check it out!

http://www.eleventhtransmission.org/November2006/daniellearsenault.html

Hola mis Hijos...
Still in Mexico I have found more than enough inspiration to write about. It flows as you could say. So, creative I may be, I have just finished my 4th chapbook entitled: Short and Sweet; Corto y Dulce. You'll be lucky to get your hands on a limited edition copy...but don't worry The Lost Lemon Mime is coming...

On the radio again, Danelle appeared on CJSW as part of international woman's day, spouting poems born from mexican influence.
Sunday, March 5 at... 5:45pm MST, Calgary time.

Now in Guadalajara, Mexico, Danielle continus to scribble endless concoctions of the mind. Her little note book is getting fat, fat, fat.She has had 2 poems published in the second issue of NoD magazine and recently read at the launch party on February 17th. How? Why on the international airwaves of course...by phone. An interesting experince to say the least. She, alone in her bedroom speaking into a grey object while hundreds of poised listeners awaited her ramblings on the other end of the line.Here are the details of that event:

NoD Magazine is launching its second issue:
Friday, February 17th at 7:30 pm
at The Lazy Loaf and Kettle #8 Parkdale Crescent NW Calgary)

Andre' Rodrigues
Felicia Pacentrilli
Jason Christie
S-J Krahn
the music of Some Dirty Hobos
and...a live performance from Mexico by Danielle Arsenault.

VOICE, SOUND AND SONG II

Spoken Word Performances by:

Brendan McLeod
Danielle Arsenault
Mark Hopkins
and hosted by: Mat Mailandt

Friday, December 23rd 2005, starting at 8:00 pm
@ The Soda, 211 12 Ave SW
$5 at the door, 15% of profits going to the Kids Cancer Foundation

Fresh off his last European tour, Canadian poetry SLAM champion Brendan McLeod returns to Calgary with more of the stunning wordplay that wowed crowds this past October. He will be joined by local performers Danielle Arsenault, Mark Hopkins, and Mat Mailandt in a pre-Christams word blitz - for those of you who missed the October show, come and check it out, you will not be disappointed!

BRENDAN MCLEOD is a spoken word artist and musician based out of Vancouver, and has been called "Canada's top SLAM spieler" by CBC. He is the winner of the National Individual Final at the 2004 Canadian SpokenWordlympics, awarded to the top SLAM poet in Canada. In 2005, he was Vancouver's Grand SLAM Champion. He finished second in the world at Holland's World Slampionship in June 2005. Recent readings include the Rotterdam International Poetry Festival, Canadian Festival of Spoken Word, the German SLAM nationals, and the Dylan Thomas Festival, UK. He recently completed a five country European tour with the poetry supergroup The Fugitives. He received his MA in Philosophy in 2001.

"I felt purely personal inspiration from Brendan McLeod... the next big thing... an extremely talented writer and performer... I feel no sense of impending ego ready to jut from his words. He was truly impressive." - Buddy Wakefield, back to back 2004 and 2005 Individual World Poetry SLAM Champion

Danielle Arsenault
Art is passion. Dramatics speaks louder than eyes of emotion. Surroundings breathe new ideas to think about. Through everyday sights and sounds imagination pours through the orifice called voice or the wonders of a fully functioning hand holding a pen. Several hundred chapbooks of Grooving through the Lime Light, Dreaming of National Pickle Day, and Black Market Dissonance are out there somewhere and Boogie Dogs and Amateur Plastic was the most anticipated spoken word CD release of the year, we are not disappointed. With a BFA and almost done an education degree, Danielle Arsenault will continue to think and thrive as best she can in Guadalajara, Mexico for a while.

Mark Hopkins
Mark Hopkins just graduated with a BA in English and Creative Writing from the University of Calgary, and he's startled to be already working in the arts. He's the Administrative Assistant of the Calgary International Spoken Word Festival, Volunteer Coordinator for the Mutton Busting Performance and Visual Art Festival, Events Coordinator for filling Station magazine, a freelance writer for Swerve magazine, and Vice-President of the Board of Directors for Calgary Young People's Theatre. His writing has appeared in several chapbooks, and he most recently performed at the 2005 Calgary Blow-Out Festival and a fundraiser for a theatre company called Urban Curvz.

This was Part two of the Sting Spoken Word Saga:

Pungent Rhetoric
sting spoken word poetry
December 12th, 2005
@ Soda, 211 12th ave. SW $8

Moe Clark
Sabo
Chester Fibber
Danielle Arsenault
with musical guests...
A Part of a Plan and
Heavy Traffic

Oh... the first event coordinated by Danielle and Gang

battle of the juxtaposed
sting spoken word poetry
Danielle Arsenault
Chester Fibber
Mark Hopkins
Ian Samuels
and musical guests, the feel
Thursday, September 22, 2005 @ 8:30pm
$7 at Karma Cafe, 2139 33rd Avenue SW (marda loop)

Originality of Orality Online was born out of the

Calgary International Spoken Word festival. Check out their website:
http://www.calgaryspokenwordfestival.com/oooo/index.html

Danielle has been published in this issue and

she invites you to spy with your little eyes:

http://www.calgaryspokenwordfestival.com/oooo/archives/071405/arsenault.html

Short and Sweet-Corto y Dulse. Fouth Edition.
A collection of selected poems
© 2005 by Danielle Arsenault

Poems:
roast beef honesty
peace earth plead
they cooked it hot
closet gremlin
enchanted peaks
palomino
downtown degenerative
the barrier smog corporation
vast black bull
red drunk deliberate
quacks dividing consciousness
problematic armchair
starlight angel
one more round
he’s stained like my underwear
impulse
spiders scattered
fad diet
biography of learning
blue inconspicuous
petticoat mistress
how the dragon got his rainbow tail
art deco
where are the horses now?


roast beef honesty
A golden surface
A street once busy teeming with busy footsteps
Not so busy now
If I squint from where I sit
I can see a rump roast in the distance
It lies on a jolly man’s plate
who sits at a table
which lies on the golden surface
on the once busy street

He believes in honesty
I know because that grin he portrays
Only shows four teeth
And in those teeth hang two slivers of his stringy
rump roast
(which he has now completely devoured)

Everyone knows that when an honest man smiles
two slivers of rump roast
should be seen hanging in between his teeth
Now since those slivers are there -
He must not only believe in honesty
he must himself be honest


peace earth plead
An individual overload
surrounding billows of masked illusion
while our green mother earth suffers
whole-heartedly under our feet
a nation empire unavoidable
bringing forth an illustrious cloud of compromise

Consider our undoubting joy
for participation in a world
peace
police
defying sneers from pessimistic protesters
everything in moderation

Loving our gracious flora and fauna
to the ultimate extent of protection
perfection
plant a tree for the future
inhabitants living together in peace
clearing the gap and
sewing the ozone shut.


they cooked it hot
Puncture through the window glass
Arsenic induced vinyl chloride explosions in the middle of the living room
Fitting like a glove until the exterior ricocheted off the neighbour’s afternoon tea cup.
Guts suck straight against the space heater

The Green Diet dropped dead as Motor Mouth steam-rolled his muzzle
The truth becomes whatever you lead yourself to believe.
Motor Mouth is an official supplier
Never could they mention the house they cooked

Flash in the pan, cease perfection
delicious scares laughed with desire
from both tainted mouths wet with anticipation

sudden stop burst
derailed where I was found
and all-neighbours joined the sheep flock
to observe in motion picture oblivion.

Black Market Dissonance. Third Edition.
A collection of selected poems

© 2004 by Danielle Arsenault

Poems:
Soup of the day
01/01/01
The Train Ride
Billy
Old Conformity
Idle chitchat fills a void
fields of wrath
The Audition
War: I never knew
Ocean Road
Junior
Political Chauvanist
Focus Sweetie
Only one seductive offering
Lonely cigar
Hit the Hot button
Taping Jack Rock
This inevitable change
Bus Stop
they broke the mould
Decide
dream drum
The Best Rice Pudding

Soup of the day
It has been awhile since the pen has ventured forth
A voyeur
Thinking of terrible things – pessimist
I am developing a theme of nonsense
And it makes me happy
Nonsense makes me happy

Today I like the taste of lime
Lime flavored wine gums

Winter is fast approaching
But I’d rather not think about that when my bladder is full
We are going to your favorite small town restaurant – The Bambi Inn
People eat alone
I prefer to slurp my soup.
Soup of the day

A little girl falls in love with my hair
It is pink
Pink like an elephant if an elephant was pink


01/01/01
Intriguing unknown
In a magical wonder land
He caught my eye –
Captivation


The Train Ride
Beginning this corrugated journey
Tracks saw edged
This ride jostles my hand
While peering through tinted glass
That defends my head from the decapitating wind

I admire the artist’s palette
A terrain of golden dotted green
And salt n’ pepper scars of indigenous rock
Clouds cut mountain tops
And clear to reveal snow sown points

Upon the valley crossing
I peer through foreground fencing
On the broken river viaduct
I am reminded of flickering picture shows
A documentary of our land
Old land
Immediate night falls-
Attacked black from the train’s tunnel
Then light appears again
Revealing autumn leaves crisp descending
The conductor speaks of the greater wool
That comes from high alpine areas

The relentless toilet speaks sounds shocking
Of swoosh and slurp
If the detachment of train cars occur,
I will be a panic with my pants down
Rapidly advancing into a cavernous crevasse

Dreaming of National Pickle Day. Second Edition
A collection of selected poems
© 2003 by Danielle Arsenault

Poems:
Gloves
Picking strawberries
Aphrodisiac oysters
Horoscope
The track suit man
New York City night
Pie Guy
Swim parallel to shore
Bad News
Contraband Cowboy
This old corn field Ribbon Falls

Gloves
They would find gloves every time they were dropped off
A thumb for a ride
This is all because eight people decide the fate of eight billion
(Really no one knew why)
The Highway proved the missing link for reconstructing gloves

Give me a million years to sponsor independent
- Unbolted open to the elements-

Before selling out to corporate bullshit
Indiscernible bodies gather in peace
Rigid police align the streets
Repeat supremacy control and contempt guilt
Dominance and disregard
I can hear their grunts now
Raucous rancid ear-splitting


Picking strawberries
My eyes dart purposefully beyond the
Sweet
Strawberries
Whispering child-like fables in the burnished moonlight
Uncomplicated purity p
l u
m
m
e
t
s

To the solid ground
Simpleminded innocence instigates defenselessness contributions
While imprisoned dreams remain at a standstill – throbbing
Dizzy streams of nomadic lust dwindles
Snatching pungent pale petals

Pulse is racing
Clinging limply to a blank verse


Aphrodisiac oysters
Sitting at the River Café
Sucking on sexy oysters spicy by the fire
Now I listen to cheesy eighties love songs
But they give me a reason to smile
Because they are all singing about me (in that cheesy way)

Just good or fantastic or fabulous
Or what if a boy just told you he loved you
Ten hours in a canoe
With sun, water, fishes and good green apples
That can survive a good long haul


Pie Guy
In the blink of an eye beneath the mackerel sky
Dominated by a Mediterranean fruit fly,
On the fourth of July in over supply,
I trip on a railroad tie and drop my pumpkin pie –
A far cry from a private eye in tie-dye.
That small fry in Junior High with his tongue-tied
Unlike a Northern Spy, he was very shy

“Please reply to the public eye
We dare you to try to balance a pie”

So hard in the court yard
The Security guard growing Swiss chard to keep guard.
So discard that retard with his strike hard arm guard
And bombard his green card while he escapes through the front yard

Running away with no delay
Wishing he could stay to share my cheese soufflé

He cheats on the downbeat
At the track meet on Jump Street
Honey sweet, on the concrete love seat
Indiscreet and incomplete
Eating luncheon meat in the summer heat
The question sheet – his reason to retreat.

My eyes run dry while I cry,
Goodbye good guy, who could balance a pie in the blink of an eye.

Grooving Through the Lime Light. First edition
A collection of selected poems
© 2002 by Danielle Arsenault

Poems:
doomsayers
coloured crayon rhetoric
01/01/01
whirlpools of bliss
dreams contagious
lucky laici
quick fix
seagull revenge
grooving through the lime light
the family reunion
dirty dumps of America
cough syrup
road trip lives
attention to detail
playing cards frozen
the breast tradesman
three little candy canes
In the 60’s secrets are saved
treasure chest

Quick fix
The touch game was a bee sting
A fermented spirit fleeting
And the first aid dummies tasted like raspberry candies
From the lady down the lane
Disturbed unhallowed hidden folk
Broke the gallow-glass
In search of a disturbing inspiration
What they found was intellectual refrigeration

Seagull Revenge
The cock-eyed seagull hovered spitting distance above us
Thinking we were a big piece of cheddar
(For we hid under an orange sheet)
A strident rhythmic caw-caw sound equaling the licking of lips
Kept us in our place feeding our imagination hallucination
We dreamt of castles in Spain
Where a plague was well planned
And the birds dropped dead in silence
Delivering the devils disease full steam
The sickened sea gull finally got the popularity he deserved

The Family Reunion
First they blew up their parents garage
Masterminds
Salivating siblings against the grain
How hard one hit his head
Sees only concave umbrellas and rotting bones
Sweat and slow motion create a soaking slime
As crustaceans engulf his feet
He bleeds a miracle of cowboys and barbed wire
The family reunion
Lusting over his luscious cousin
Eating fingernails frantically
His mind meandering nervously to the pigs freshly born
So where the hell is this peeling unit devised for spanking?
Wake up kid, lucid dreams kid
Only an experiment
Where the fuck’s your sister?