A God.
Ten thousand people are calling to their god.
The ground spits him out like grounds tend to spit god out. He stands there. Motionless.
Ten thousand people are now crying for their god.
The god stands and gets admired. Motionless. Three minutes. Four minutes and five. The crowd cries louder with every pacing moment. Twenty thousand tears fall from ten thousand pair of eyes as if the Egyptian guards’ whipping just got harder. “Cry for your god, dammit!”
The god turns his head suddenly an sharply. The crowd cries even louder. Their good moved for crying out loud! They better be loud. They push forward. The little men in the front with the “Security” sign painted across the orange shirt with bold black font are also yelling. Who cares? They've never been closer to god.
The god starts dancing.
The crowd cries and screams. “Scream louder! Your god is dancing!” Whip whip.
The god catches every last one of the funky pop beats with his hip and with perfect perfection. Then the left shoulder. Right shoulder. Back down to left hip. Right hip.
The crowd screams. I laugh.
Every tear-stained face feeds my hilarity like carbon on a steam-run Titanic engine. I should probably stop laughing. It's a god I'm laughing at after all. It could be rude.
Nah. I like laughing.
Ten thousand people pay ten thousand dollars to breathe the same unclean carbon dioxide as their god, and, uncaringly, ten thousand others.
Just to be there as he dances once again. To me, THAT’S funny.
Michael Jackson: A god,--and, to me, a dancing monkey.
Half-Made-in-China-plastic, half-god. In that order.
And as I watch the pathetic zombies crying on that pathetic consert inside that pathetic television screen in a pathetically urban part of town, I can't help but laugh. How pathetic.
There he is, dancing. The thing millions dream about, crave about.
I don’t know about you, but I prefer staying wide awake.—Doing what I’m doing, how I’m doing it, where I’m doing it, and for Whom I’m doing it. Actually, that is excatly my point with this semengly useless post. In fact, go on ahead and read this paragraph again. The whole thing. I'll wait.
Whooota! “Dammit, type faster!”
This one’s especially annoying.
Gio.
The ground spits him out like grounds tend to spit god out. He stands there. Motionless.
Ten thousand people are now crying for their god.
The god stands and gets admired. Motionless. Three minutes. Four minutes and five. The crowd cries louder with every pacing moment. Twenty thousand tears fall from ten thousand pair of eyes as if the Egyptian guards’ whipping just got harder. “Cry for your god, dammit!”
The god turns his head suddenly an sharply. The crowd cries even louder. Their good moved for crying out loud! They better be loud. They push forward. The little men in the front with the “Security” sign painted across the orange shirt with bold black font are also yelling. Who cares? They've never been closer to god.
The god starts dancing.
The crowd cries and screams. “Scream louder! Your god is dancing!” Whip whip.
The god catches every last one of the funky pop beats with his hip and with perfect perfection. Then the left shoulder. Right shoulder. Back down to left hip. Right hip.
The crowd screams. I laugh.
Every tear-stained face feeds my hilarity like carbon on a steam-run Titanic engine. I should probably stop laughing. It's a god I'm laughing at after all. It could be rude.
Nah. I like laughing.
Ten thousand people pay ten thousand dollars to breathe the same unclean carbon dioxide as their god, and, uncaringly, ten thousand others.
Just to be there as he dances once again. To me, THAT’S funny.
Michael Jackson: A god,--and, to me, a dancing monkey.
Half-Made-in-China-plastic, half-god. In that order.
And as I watch the pathetic zombies crying on that pathetic consert inside that pathetic television screen in a pathetically urban part of town, I can't help but laugh. How pathetic.
There he is, dancing. The thing millions dream about, crave about.
I don’t know about you, but I prefer staying wide awake.—Doing what I’m doing, how I’m doing it, where I’m doing it, and for Whom I’m doing it. Actually, that is excatly my point with this semengly useless post. In fact, go on ahead and read this paragraph again. The whole thing. I'll wait.
Whooota! “Dammit, type faster!”
This one’s especially annoying.
Gio.
posted by Gio at 12:00 AM
2 Comments:
Lol, very clever gio
Very nicely said Gio
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