El futuro del people en este pais is bleak, we are more than weak, nos puntas este mi point, lingua del no lingua, fue fuerte? Not sure, for these people are muerte, madres y padres, feces and fetuses del bebe y bebiendo tomar liquor.
I'm not drunk, I'm just cultured and lost, between times and tenses, languages and sentences Sensei, master orator of speech and what is written, whom is shittin' somewhere down the creek or crick, a brick, gently floating into the stream from which we all drink, just think, of the stink.
We're talking poetry and haiku mind you, tiempo and tempo, repetition, cognition, ignored art, and it's garbage submission. Escuchan! It does not matter what I say, I could speak clearly, and you would still fuck it up, but at least punditry can do so in the formal, a formula of success, and bebes.
Of course there is no accent on these words, for they are written! Anos and manos, hands and thoughts wasted being smitten, and in order, by the past present and future, for which I do not frankly give a damn, anymore, it will flow from now on and not be clogged by structures of bore, a night with a friend or a night with a whore, make a choice, a decision (in Spanish). Sea amigo, you are wet from the waves, salty as they may be, crashing into Japan, and the Pacific rim of no-man's land.
Comprende compadre? Take up arms against your own misunderstanding, politically correct armies of retards will beat down the doors of clarity, though they all could see absolutamente nothing on the other side before they battered their fists into pulp. Let it flow bitch, right into the nothingness of the net, and the bulk of "who cares?" that could be deleted with a button, but never translated in whole.
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