My Input
I hate slackers.
They dig out of the gloom with a rubber spork,
constantly uploading the living noose around my perception.
I dig the days away with purple pills and an ashtray,
yet can't manipulate the words to say to make them go away.
So I do dirt:
I call it a reform for new management.
An understanding of something relevant,
while the bleeding hearts stay bleeding stagnant.
I walk the sunshine line between being fake and "******** you."
so slumber escapes the residue of my infringement.
No joke. No joke.
This carpet bleeds a thousand stories;
clones for the metaphors that become boring with all of my whoring.
They become matchstick men, fighting the corrupt alien hordes,
mixed with a mad storm of the s**t that I perform when I become bored.
Yeah,
that's internal rhyme, coupled with a bad joke or
a parody of my questionable sexuality
or a perverse interest in Freemasonry.
Choke it up to a special blend of special effects;
Take my phallus deep in like a lozenge
and call me when all the waters turn blue.
I'm waiting for an opus
so don't let me linger any longer.
These façades are crumpling paper
and I know all about black ink.
Sterile is as sterile does,
so shine my last December;
I'm calling bullshit on that last line,
while the doom march races on.
Yes. It's cliché.
I know this.
So hit 88mph, go back and bleed the pigs.
No McSuperfly painting the world-weary windows for these kids.
We need to take it back to when ******** could rock,
so I won't be the painted avatar of a world that settles for naught.
My ink's running dry.
It's there, but it's clumping and cheap
like a ten-dollar-whore's mascara,
producing words that look like nothing more than
stains on already filthy sheets
of paper.
But why pass the buck to a hooker?
She got enough of them from me to begin with
and barely got me off within the hour I got with her,
(shrouded in cigarette smoke
and the smell of her last customer
still lingering on her lingerie)
never mind smooth the chips
or rid the demons across my shoulders
(once I'd run out of limbs, digits and orifices
I tired of trying to count them and left them
as a dead weight to compress my spine
and keep my awkward walking slouch in tact).
I digress (most of you know me, that's not exactly a shocker).
You can run a lot of years on empty:
weaving a dew-catcher
to try and prove you still have dreams -
and the drive or luck to stumble through them -
before someone brushes it away
'cause it's ******** with their
perfect petunias and pickets
(that's not clichéd,
just a really bland metaphor).
