Clinamenic
Binary & Tweed
That’s a lot of boots left to lick.
Gus's Top 100 Bootlickin' Nonce Anthems
- Thread starter sus
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- absolute cringe ari grass you up basic boy scout ted bundy coachella 2024 at the nonce hotel cum cult dad was a casual whistler fit mom! gandalf had to sell the home grandad was a cuck gus lord of darkness high school shooter memoires joanna newsom come to butthead jordan petersons gremlin child let the wrong 'un in no theory at the merch table! nonce upon a time pete doherty qpr plod pizarro was fastidiously kept in a bolivian tomb power bottom thems the rules spatial cathexis spots like pitchfork superstitious middle aged italian woman neurosis the deplorable product of craner's infamous fling these boots are made for lickin' undercover plod
Clinamenic
Binary & Tweed
Some killer tags on this thread.
“Joanna Newsom come to Butthead”
🤣
“Joanna Newsom come to Butthead”
🤣
sus
Moderator
I'm not sure, people were not liking the direction the tracks were taking, so I feel impelled to change it up if I go forward
I was considering talking about my Burger Records years when I got really into garage rock revival and roadtripped down to Fullerton and met King Tuff.
I was considering talking about the beginnings of my poptimism arc, from RiRi to Robyn.
I was considering talking about my freshman year Americana radio show where I played soundtracks to Westerns, and Fats Domino, and the like.
I was considering talking about my Burger Records years when I got really into garage rock revival and roadtripped down to Fullerton and met King Tuff.
I was considering talking about the beginnings of my poptimism arc, from RiRi to Robyn.
I was considering talking about my freshman year Americana radio show where I played soundtracks to Westerns, and Fats Domino, and the like.
mvuent
Void Dweller
In golden hills with hungry gulls, where stillness kills and weather lulls, and mission bells ring culture dull; on sunset’s coast a teacher’s son, our host my ghost your medium—Promethean, bohemian, chameleon (qué bien & some)—with happy heart, nor art, the eyes fixed singly on the mark, and swimming laps from dark to dark—suspended, sea-logged, racing barque—yet nagging deep was discontentment: all achievement that was lent him came at cost of such neglection: words forgotten, song unpracticed, “heart of mine so like a cactus.”
Til one morning in the mountains—clearings where a libr'y founded, He-Man Miller, generous fountain—were all his doubt and debt surmounted, romancing to find his Merlin, and thus announced his route would swerve then.
A violin, a pedal loop, a puff of pipe-weed, o'raggad group; his Lady came from Guadalupe, and waved her arms amnesiac fog so he forgot about the odds—forgot the math, the path, the bath, of standing up to west wind’s wrath; the cries of gulls too much to take; from ghouls of death, sought lemniscate. The motto that he drank like nectar, brandished though he were defector: “I am muscle, I am arrow, I am bone and I am vector.”
So if it pleases, you may hear—my song so human and so flawed—of Heman the Americanite, his journey prolonged, in a nutative rhythm with writing that nods, with bouquets of distinctions that add up to God. (A cooing, an evenness, assonance, warble. A raga of throat-sounds that cast away foibles—that open up portals, make singers immortal.)
But what use is a bower that has not its bird? Flowers sans pollen are wasteful, absurd. The power of beauty, our interest, for hours; the sweetness of nectar, abhorrence of sour, is nutriment promised for which we devour. So the function of flourish is moral inferred, the lessons embedded in words we have heard. The rhyme is the dangler attached to the angler, and if it betrays, then it earns reader rancor. But reader is gambler and writer is card; a critical ear is a ward against bards. So caveat emptor and hurry along.
Til one morning in the mountains—clearings where a libr'y founded, He-Man Miller, generous fountain—were all his doubt and debt surmounted, romancing to find his Merlin, and thus announced his route would swerve then.
A violin, a pedal loop, a puff of pipe-weed, o'raggad group; his Lady came from Guadalupe, and waved her arms amnesiac fog so he forgot about the odds—forgot the math, the path, the bath, of standing up to west wind’s wrath; the cries of gulls too much to take; from ghouls of death, sought lemniscate. The motto that he drank like nectar, brandished though he were defector: “I am muscle, I am arrow, I am bone and I am vector.”
So if it pleases, you may hear—my song so human and so flawed—of Heman the Americanite, his journey prolonged, in a nutative rhythm with writing that nods, with bouquets of distinctions that add up to God. (A cooing, an evenness, assonance, warble. A raga of throat-sounds that cast away foibles—that open up portals, make singers immortal.)
But what use is a bower that has not its bird? Flowers sans pollen are wasteful, absurd. The power of beauty, our interest, for hours; the sweetness of nectar, abhorrence of sour, is nutriment promised for which we devour. So the function of flourish is moral inferred, the lessons embedded in words we have heard. The rhyme is the dangler attached to the angler, and if it betrays, then it earns reader rancor. But reader is gambler and writer is card; a critical ear is a ward against bards. So caveat emptor and hurry along.