Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Car Crash

"Yeah, egg him on in his torture, it's fun to watch, plus, it will make great art. Encourage him!"

and the other dead poets 
are the only ones that get me
but God

is schismatic and undecided
about torture, pleasure, hope and despair 

and now the poison comes
it's an intense emotional hatred
if I were a poet, I'd call it a wet, black, blanket
and I would think the demons that cuddle me underneath it
are its bones 

and it's luck that turns you out

nothing more

the night we shared was embarrassing misandry and misogyny marrying in the back seat

the game is manufactured love
I could reach inside you and
show you your fervently
beating heart as long as I
hide my hand, don't show my cards

expel the ego that the baptist preaches as truth
arrogance is piety
pride is virtue
vanity is vanity
and you, don't have anything to offer other than a car crash

but, in the end, was avoiding it of any value?

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