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

behind

pillars

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

pigments,

identity,

and sensuality.

We have manufactured sustenance from the raw

and it is apperating in the mouths of the rich

in
dot

dot

dot

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

struggle

like an infant’s  head

and it’s crown.


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