Looking from the outside in, swallowing words into a vast ocean of meaningless garbage,
Picking apart what has not existed, only to frame what a simpleton can comprehend.
They shatter the art with their phlegm-brained elegies, for death is the cost of a published paper back-scratcher,
Petting political rants like a wet dog; a cat in heat that mews at the moonlight.
Coped with degrees of insecurity, though affirmed by their debts in communist Beatnik-wannabe gatherings
Around round tables topped with overpriced wine and lacking feasts, stumbling as if their process of mind was any clearer when sober.
So high strung in their store bought nooses, framed in their over-hanging eye wear;
Oh original, I see! None like the whores before your time, you be.
The cafes, now lost without cigarette smoke, now lost without the mad men, lost without troubles of real despair, without merit or purpose--
Harvesting rotten fruits from the flats of naive screamers, pocketing perfect polished papers of mouth-water.
No where do I belong with such death trap for a cover charge, no where shall I seat myself amongst the deaf and dumb,
For the Judge already exists in the soul, whether you bash him in the mouth with His own hammer or sidetrack Him with a little skin.
No comments:
Post a Comment