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Date Written: September 3, 2017



Surprising and magical in the manner of speaking and acting like you and I are the sheets

Of our mothers and fathers DNA bone marrow, inherited from the Father’s Son, a Ghost

Being nothing but an idea, a thought in the beginning before the light shined, gas-dust moved

Above and below, so far that nobody knows how far since the unmoved mover never grooved.


In the center of a dot is an empty black hole full of nothing but herb, smoking tetrahydracab

Without a mindful of hate and fear of devils and saints, who came before us and never flirt

With myths busted to be what they are, unreal past of ancestral heritage, cloned from a lab

In space or in gravitational attraction to the middle of life in a whirling, wobbling ball of dirt.


Once punked, always on alert for the heads or tails of a flip, begins the game as home or away

In the end, it won’t matter at all except for the momentary collapse of winning a losing game

Nobody ever born will ever be conceived by the genome, homo sapiens can become an array

Of evil and good, disaster impediments, career infiltration by force, all deception’s the same.


Do not cry for me or memories you retain within your recollected distortions of the presence

I don’t care and you don’t care, they don’t care and none of us do but we also lie in sense

Hoping you or I will do the right thing, as confidence goes, it smokes like golden white weed

Without investigation, sanctions, remuneration and flagrant power abuse, we’re bumblebeed.


Head in a manner of speaking is merely the brain container uptop of the unprogrammed, bar

Pedals to the medal, I’m gonna break the quarter in nine flat, burned a second of hot rubber

Traction pulled me ahead in a microsecond, as if I was a leer jet next to a Model T Ford car

But gettin’ some head, getting ahead or a buzz on means that you’ve mastered the blubber.


Unconditional perfection is what I knew was possible yet the probability factor was net zero

To be or not to be the creator or the created, but not both, mutually exclusive, one is One

Everyone else is the Many and that’s all that there is to it, everything else is blind faith woe

Feeling lonely about being alone with talent without pride, to transmogrify the warm gun.


r j j stephan, I

c. September 2, 2017 Samedi @ 1900 hours PST

{ written on the funeral day of the #TwoSonsAboveAndBelow while listenin’ to AC/DC’s #GreatestHitsLiveVersion on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/9sMGpzlmVR4 }


  1. ricoSacto     September 6, 2017


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