porting bales, the hecks between hearsay, fish, beards, and that guy

Check mark, genital.

The primitive foray into all things reconsidering oceanic, a bad label soldering trick led to the rest. You'd open up the glove and check for certain round balls; that's how you'd do it when you were young. Balls meant sea creatures, Kirk captains of a sort, the genotypes that led to a type of so-called purse which, upon opening, freed the roe, sending blasts of milt and hurtles, multi-pointed (head/atlatl); cursive trajectories, side spinning smiling, out into creation mythology; we'd all heard the story, my new found bearded friend replied.

One time a guy with facial hair and a guitar was met by some kindly travel angels in a city and land where he did not speak the native tongue. The angels took him away, whisking him along, gently gently in their vehicle, so glad to see him, talking him up with heaps of praise on their way to the concert venue. Once there, the ritual dinner ensued, chit chat, more praise, beer and wine, and then, the soundcheck. During the plugging in and mic placements and amplifier requests, it suddenly dawned on the tour angels that there was something amiss with the singer's voice and acoustic stylings... did he arrive with a new album? These weren't the songs they knew, nor was his voice quite what they remembered. Meanwhile, back at the train station, another facial-haired man with an acoustic guitar was hungry as hell, looking at the big glowering station clock, wondering when the fuck his tour angels were coming to pick him up for his concert that night.

Moral? Shave.

My bearded friend slept with seaweed rugs draped from head to toe. It's the iodine that warms facial hair, but sends rust to trusted strings. Guitars have no use when submerged, even gently, but acoustics sound great when one adds a round circle between two piezos and the affixes the two together with a silicon skin. Have trust in the fish? Maybe.

Or, suggest that maybe, professionally, you have two tongues. Yet today, when combover mannequins think they're social media Leos, put a bit of wire, namely that rusted string, into their wallets before they get away. Taking the wire and poking it several times will create a sieve effect, draining their capacities when it's time to tug their imperial pants. Once down, a new acoustic will be born, sending with it, the gurgles and glee of a semen so profound that the world will shiver, shake, send itself (like the aforementioned missile) into the sun. But not to worry, we could all use some vitamin D that day.




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