allow me to woo you with words.
Real life words straight out of oxfords crevasse.
Or perhaps I will woo you with some shards of ass.
Allow me to introduce myself. I am a product.
Manufactured by the hands of who gives a shit
with a mind from who gives a golden fuck.
I am pure Divinity
Or perhaps I am a production. Brought to you
by…! click. My heart clicks when I smoke too
many goddam cigarettes. I love em
I’ll smoke em to the day i die.
Allow me to make an offering.
Here is my heart. It is made of paint. Of all hues.
I like to pierce it open and pour it on my skull
then finger it as it drips down onto the marble
floors of my mind. My museum. My playground.
I have entire fucking galleries attributed to my lovers.
Such ecstasy of beauties unveiled, cemented me to the floors
of the fucking taj mahal up to my goddam knees.
Good. It gives me something to look at in my mind
while the next piece comes flying off the boat
Cemented. stone. Medusa. I love her.
She’s colder than pure ego.
I love rotten cunts with pretentious lips
that wouldn’t spread their stems
for Shakespeare, unless they knew he
had money, and didn’t know he was Shakespeare.
They’re a challenge. And In the heart of challenge
lies the seeds of conquer.
The sort of shit that makes a man’s
balls grow by the ton and
cut you off on the fucking highway
with no blinker. Fucking gargantuan
truck driven pricks. What they’re doing on this
glorious green globe, only the maker itself knows
the answer to that goddam rubiks.
Im fancy. I give a shit about special things.
Like romance. I like romance, but it makes me vomit
shards of my heart. They get caught in my teeth.
I wouldn’t mind so much but I’m all out of tooth picks.
But teeth are important.
And flossing teeth is like pulling fucking weeds.
Only good little soldiers floss their teeth before bed.
And I’m no goddam soldier. I am a fucking warrior. of love.
When fire burns, I smear blood on my face,
drench my soul in gas and dive right in.
When sleep tugs me by the balls
of my lids, I go. But neither do I prepare for.
Routine? Please. The very word makes me want to
scribble outside the goddam lines.
When I’m moved, I’m moved. When I burn,
I burn
And curses to any fucking routine
that inhibits my flow.
I hate preparation. I hate time. I hate anything
that interrupts the now that im in.
I like love. But it smears my paint. If it didn’t turn black
I wouldn’t mind so much. But when shit gets smeared,
it gets fucking smeared.
So what. Paint over it. Plus I like black anyway. Why
I don’t know. Who cares. I just know I like it
The word fantasy was conjured from the abyss
when man’s imagination withered into a peanut.
Cold. Dead. imagination.
He’s lost all sense of myth, all sense of mystical,
all sense of anything worth a thought
in this techno driven rat race
I like falling in love with every inch of beauty
that nooses my eyes. I am a slave to beauty
how poetic. How contrived.
I am a hopeless romantic. I am trite
I’m triter than cleverest fucking metaphor
ever to grace language.
What is romance but immersing oneself in the Present anyhow.
Romance is a farce. But I am a romantic to the end.
Neo romeo omega abyss. bliss.
