I get mad about writing. It happens.
Actually I'm tired of it all - it's tedious trying to write
ballsy verse - anything really - how do we continue?
Doesn't the world have plenty?
Enough with all the whore-hounds peddling avant
Fuck these people - and the pen - it's
grating my nerves can't handle it anymore
hardships filtered through a lens - a glowing
incandescent eye - who can say what is the clearest image?
Jump - we do - we continue on some kinder path
Lamely we sit in rooms and debate 'work'
Noose around our necks - we've built them openly
we crave the tightness - praised the roughness
on our skin - I am through
quitting - only so much self-flagellation one can do
I am a page beating my own chest - an ocean of verbs
undulating without a shore to contain me
Nice image that - holding nothing as it does
We are a bunch of asses piling books up like stones
Yammering bullshit - we zookeep ourselves and tie
reigns on our faces - everything is alphabet
nothing is sensible
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