Saturday, April 6, 2013

What is a poem? Fuck it. I can't read...


it was all a dream
you was dreaming i was makin cream
weed, wet and lean all i need
fuck like a fiend laying schemes


bloodspatter just a murderer's train tracks
somehow my cock alone bankrupted tampax
work day and night always making money
think a dick aint right at home in the cunny

looks like im quadriplegic smoking streebo
pass muster call me colonel cum busto
breaking backs born a black bastard
the reason sidewalks have cracks

You thought public beatings were just for the blacks

Fear burns more than drinking turpentine
blackness on the ground and no sounds
even the dirt underneath got to see sunshine
today the rocks want you: smoke me, i smoke you.

If life were lies, rocks would be whom tell the truth
to see your body undisturbed amongst similar rubble
and slowly degenerate, a metaphor for your troubles
those of people like you, those whom would follow
those who preceded you, abandoned, as if it were the gallows
the callow and fallow, indifferent to masochistic sorrow
indifferent to the dead detriment irrelevant of tomorrow
even if given the time to surmount accomplishment
still standing indistinguishable from a mountain of dirt
representative of all of it's accomplishments, inert
a flat mount of indifferent neutrality would seem humble
to the self consuming degeneracy and lunacy of modern people
a hole perhaps 60 feet deep with an oscillating tide and water line
enough to scuff those creatures of waste into the organic rinds
sifted into the sand pickling them into petroleum with life in mind
paying back debts to the dirt, when you still owe something
even after they steal off your back your last fucking shirt
Somehow people could still have made an impact
great enough to leave a mound of dirt, when
a positive addition to the earth minus detraction from life
1:1 between all lifeforms and creatures puts man in his place
the ground level a neutral state +x-x=0, below 0 is a hole
each person judged by their merit honestly, free from hostility
bound by factuality, reality, truth, scales of virtue and vice
the Tower of Babel would stand beside an endless cliff
the truly making positive impact, the others simply detriment
dereliction consuming endlessly until such mounds are set adrift
from crumbling foundations free to either fly, or sink yet again to die
were the tower to reach heaven, god may well save it,
were the hole to reach hell, the devil may well raze it.

Indifference is the opinion that it matters not which way one chooses
towards heaven or hell, even those who strive to be godly may never see god
the most damnable men on earth well know they cannot summon satan.
Even for such men who dwell upon eaves of the extremes,
 the concept of divinity remains fleeting even in dreams.

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