you know what i think?
I think you’re full of shit,
like i am
and in the amygdala
vibrato of Kafka being read
out loud or in mind,
like a Brutus, softly pacing
I Know you know their specific names.
It’s as futile as trying to explain The Ghost.
And as fool hearted to expect a crowd of 5, 000 to know what you mean.
Stuff your gaunt faces
with the plumpness only a taxidermist could insert,
the efficiency of the duckface
battling for a place in the scheme of
We have manufactured sustenance from the raw
and it is apperating in the mouths of the rich
line line line
Have I explained my romance with fascism accurately enough?
Or is it my love for shock value,
or my love for contradiction
OR the conviction
that enlightenment only comes from pushback
like an infant’s head
and it’s crown.