Lexigrams of the Moment

A PRIVATE ARTIST STRIVE.

AS A SPRITE, RAVES.

APT.

A spirit tries, a spirit tires.

A STAR CAPTIVATES.

A spat.

A pa craves raves - a pare[n]t spit at a spirit, a pest.

A trap - A CAPTIVE SPIRIT.

A spirit tries space.

A pa - Iciest. Racist. A pest. Trivia. Tripe. Prate.

A rapist? A rape? Cries? Tears?

A pa stare at, scare a spirit, a star.

Save a spirit!

A cat sits, stares.

Carpets are rare.

A spirit - a trap.

A river rat, a viper, asp, a trap.

A vice, a price.

Crap.

Visit a rat-trap - a pa spit at a private artist as a private artist practi[c]e at a carpet as a cat stare.

A private artist, a captive spirit, a star captivates, a spirit at rest.

Upon the death in New Jersey, in February, 2010, of this very private woman who had only been known as a home-owner landlord who had only ever looked after her parents, news emerged that as a child, she had been a highly praised prodigy violinist.

GET REAL??

I am so far from real it isn’t safe for most to get near me.

I AM STRANGE!

Listen to me!

Life is a great gift …

I grant gifts to fans as I entertain on stage.

I am a great talent.

I imagine.

I sing.

I am a singing star on stage.

I manage a team of stage managers.

To remain a great star, to remain FIRST, I gotta let go.

I am free of fears, I am not little girl.

I got a lot of TALENTS.

I IMAGINE, I MANAGE, I SING, I ENTERTAIN.

If I fail, see me in anger, in a rage.

I am a foremost, greatest singer on stage.

To entertain, I seem strange.

At times, I wing it.

As I am getting fatter, I groan.

It’s a real feat to fit fat feet into stiff forms.

I got a nose ring, so?

If a man in fangs strangle me on stage, it’s not real - it’s just as I imagine it.

Got it?

I’m as real as most; I fart too.

Posted at the request of Josh from Indiana, USA.

A fantastic tale, a fine fable.

A street cretin talent is able - earns an eternal star as a real class act.

Fans are eternal as a star’s talent, craft is rare.

Frank is first, best at a craft.

Frank’s beat sense is rare.

Albeit, Frank is a wanker - a bit.

Frank’s sin, stain is - Frank can’t resist a fair face, nice tits, ass.

Frank sees a fair face as a fast snack.

At least a freak is frank in talks.

Frank’s face is basic.

Frank can be dark, scary.

Frank can sneak like a snake, be a rank caliber brat.

Frank acts as if a fart can’t stink!

Frank steals fair faces, not care, not blink, not fret.

Stars fear Frank, Frank fears a rat’s nest.

Frank fears far battles.

Blasts scare Frank.

As it is, Frank’s life is like a fantastic fable.

Take a street brat, test a talent, let a star rise, earn/bank fat salaries, attain eternal fans.

In a fine life, a talent basks in ease.

FACTS.

PRACTICE! PRACTICE! PRACTICE!

No one on entire planet can pick it, rock it like Eric Clapton.

Can tackle, can tickle.

A planet talent on a torn carpet.

A partner, participate.

On air, in print.

Practice an antic, a prank.

Clap, clap, clap.

Panic! Alert on an airplane.

Ice on a plane can trap.

Reaction - PANIC - A TRAP.

Take a train.

Rotten tripe?

No.

COCAINE.

FIERY HOT!

ORNATE.

RIFE - FEAR OF A BOY.

Earth honor her for her air, her bent, her heat.

BORN TO BE, YEAR AFTER YEAR - IN FRONT, AT FORE OF HER ART.

Tony, brainy, fair.

A trainer train her tone.

Tho I try not to hate any one, I harbor a fear of one horny boy.

One boy hornier than I! A BRAT!

One boy bother her, bore her, bone her, hit her, bit her, tore at her.

In brief, a bent boy hit her.

After her fit, her rant, he hit her.

Oh FART!

EARTH in on it!

After he hit her, rather than hate a boy, Rihanna harbor faith in a boy.

He not, not anyone rob her of her faith.

I bet on a boy to try.

Oh bother, Oh brother …

I eat a banana.

To be or not to be near a boy …

Kurt Cobain in a dark, dank lair. No air.

Black rain.

Dark luck.

Cold and curt, I rub it in and I look at it.

On a track, I blurt it out! I turn it out!

DIRT, RANK.

BOLD. I BURN. I BARK!

I turn it on! I ruin it!

A cool burn-out.

Rank. Loud. Cold.

I run to a dark cold lair and I RAIL!

A runt can drink and ail.

I turn into a no-brain drunk.

ACTION!

An actor told Kurt: Don’t drink!

I drink, and I drink, and I drink.

I can’t act, but I can turn out a bold act.

I can turn it on!

I can crank it and I can bank it.

I took it, I drank it, and I laid out cold.

A BAD brat. A dolt.

Bank on a rank turd and no-brain dick on brink to ruin luck - on a lark!

DRUNK!

I told Kurt to cut it out, but Kurt took it!

I CAN’T TALK TO KURT!

And look! Look at BLOOD!

Kurt Cobain band brand not in a rut - doin’ ok …

A nifty story.

A fairy flits softly, an artist - ‘oft flat - trains to wail.

First or last, slow or fast, lost or won.

A fairy softly sways, flits and floats to stars far away.

As a tiny tot, Taylor was a fair, faint star.

Taylor was swift - a fast start - not a fool.

As a lass, Taylor was first to solo - in a way.

Fat or Fit?

Tiny tasty soft raisins on toast.

Flaw? Sin? Stain?

Snotty, snooty, soon nasty Taylor ALWAYS wants to win in worst way.

I WANT TO WIN! I WANT TO WIN NOW!!

WAIT? STALL? SLOWLY? NO!!

SOON, SWIFTLY, FAST, FIRST, NOW!!

Will Taylor fall flat, fail or win?

Taylor lost or won?

For now or always.

Taylor is, will ALWAYS win, stay FIRST on any list, as Taylor is a star.

Still, Taylor is saintly - not a saint.

Wait for a star’s fatality now, as Taylor swallows a lil’ fast foot.

Again? Damn!

Ages ago, a major singer slides under.

Mr. Mojo Risin’ dies alone in drug use.

Real or a dream?

Jim is missed!

Jim’s ideas are so good, his songs so damn original, his songs remain on air!

As Jim dies a drug user, some used derision in sharing Jim’s saga.

Mean goons judge, smear a man as a glamorous rogue.

Damn juries!

Sure, drugs - no good!

Drugs ruin a man’s mind, sure!

As Jim dies, Jim’s drug use is less an issue, man.

Jim rules as an idol - a god!

In songs, Jim’s rare soul goes on!

Jim adores one girl, remains more or less married.

Around one girl Jim smiles, is glad.

Jim, a mad man lured on drugs, used ladies.

Jim’s girl said Jim is mean - in anger, rages, ire - near sadism.

Jim argues, slams doors, mangles souls.

Dour and glum, in dim moods, in end, Jim manages … sad.

In end, Jim’s girl is near Jim’s side, as glue.

Some said a girl led Jim’s drug use again as Jim dies.

Some said a girl’s designs on Jim led Jim’s morose end.

Does a girl urge Jim’s drug use leading - Jim’s end?

Go on …

In end, Jim’s a man - a loner, a goner - goes on in song.

I dread the end.

I had a hard time.

I wondered how to end, how to die.

We went down to see a Swiss man who said he had a means to an end!

We are not so … we don’t want to do it … we don’t …

Oh dear, no more ideas!

We owed it to … a son.

He isn’t too dear or near now.

Where is he? Where is she?

Who wants, who needs to … sit and read to me? No one does!

We don’t want to end in a ward - or as wards!

He and she are not here to share in this hard end.

We don’t want to die.

There is no other idea. No other … !

We don’t want to end in a home, either!

It’s so sad, this.

Neither she nor I are wont to end in a home!

We are down! We are sad! We are morose!

We don’t see a means to end at this home!

We won’t die here! We won’t!

We’d sit and read to death!! What?! NO!

Is this what we want? NO!

And at times the weather is hard!

What are we to do then?!

Do, and eat, and shit, and die! This is it!

What more is there to do?

What there was to do … we done.

No one wants to die! We don’t!

We don’t want to die as wards.

I am same as dead, now!

I don’t see, I don’t hear, I don’t read!

We are not done, and we are done.

Sir Edward dies as a man who had done as his heart said to do.

He died as a man who dared to do as his heart said to do.

Men and women heard his sweet tones and notes.

What a wonder he was!

Now he is done.

Now we are done!

An end at last at Swiss hands.

Renown conductor Sir Edward Downes and his wife, who were both in poor health, went to a clinic in Switzerland where they were assisted in committing suicide - or euthanized - on 10 July, 2009. They had a son and daughter.

Who will win?

Who will lose?

Well???

On ‘his’ pop-idol show, posh clown Simon Cowell helps choose.

Pose! Poise! Spice!

No slop, no slip, no spill, no swine!

No noise! No dopes!

He spins simple lines on his hip-hop lemon loom.

In his spiel, Simon opens hopes, closes hopes.

When he opens hopes, people smile.

When he closes hopes - cries!

In Simon’s sole opinion, no one else is so ice cool, so hip.

When some lose, I smile.

Some one, help! Close his lips!

Simon plies some women; while some women spoil Simon.

Pace, spin wheels, Simon.

His case? Simon mopes, pines, copes, hopes.

He is solo.

His wish, his sole plea is he will help some one who is low, slow.

Simon IS so nice.

He polices, he owns his own policies.

Also, since his show, he’s in millions.

Police! Help me! Come!