Still Recall My Name

Tiny blue lobsters compose what is the color in my eyes. They are surrounded entirely by the white-sandy beach that they live on. Every momeny of their existance is spent avoiding the red rivers that flow into the black bed of cavier on which they reside. Day and night they stir the cavier to prevent the red rivers from filling the great gourd of darkness and dying their azure shells to a bloody red that would end their distingueshed royalty that is the blue shell. Despite their unity in purpose, the lobsters are not without their factions. There are the pirates, the poets, the demons, the dreamers, and so many more. The tiny blue lobsters that crawl through the air ducts and ventilation shafts that are filled with hidden cheeseburgers and boxes of candy which are focused completely on illness and nothingness. There are the tiny blue lobsters that are choreograohed within the confines of January and those dark fantasies of little voices that speak those rhythms and specialties of doorslamming in the cinemas and radio transmissions. No one can ignore the tiny little lobsters wrapped within afgan buttons of juicy vinyl drippings of quirky kisses and leather bootstraps. These young Heidi proteges color their eyes with a different blue granola than the other composite crawfathers. These dark blotters of ambient pain reside on a cavier that churns all the faster than the Hessean mobiles that have been within my pupils before the days when the red rivers began to flow. It is these pro-active gunthic deligations on which the future of the nurturing neon laughter resides. These rook-shanked mirrors of bent-over curliness clearly know not to pass the buck from dancer-to-dancer in this wolfy foreverness of death-to-death loneliness and abandonment. Despite the tiny blue cannon crestacian's cranium, their bulbous brains are feeding footsteps on steel staircases that hypnotize the hip-hop legends from their thrones on top of Blues Mountain. These legends send forth their crowns made of sweet antelope jaws unto the new millenium. The souls of the next generation are seduced into a cyclic effort of churning cavier and fresh flannel flowing freely within the red rivers. These Bohemian promises of times-yet-to-come tread their way into the perfect probiscus of the tiny blue lobster's spleens. Time means nothing to these tiny blue lobsters; they die before they are born and are canned or jarred before fear has ever entered the formation of dark, juicy cavier. Ah, but what is fear to those creatures which know no time? They fear others which do not reside in Chronos's Kingdom of Clicking and Clocks and Ticking and Tocks. They fear the mighty roar of the green lion whose mane is made of a fierce fire that burns brightly in my hollow heart. It is these creatures that make the red rivers flow. It is this rampous roaring that makes the dye flow to the royalty of the tiny blue lobster. It is this beast that fills the royal lobsters with a damned dread; it is this beast which also proposes the purpose to these lordly lobsters. The never-ending dance of these princes of ports is to avoid the wicked waters of the red rivers.