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Don’t Let Me Give You a Title There’s a bearded man stretched naked across the foyer floor and you realized you’ve reached a place you’ve only read about in weird fiction and the biographies of the mad You move smoothly, easily among these addled minds taking in amusement drinking of their separate ecstasies. There’s blood and puke on the walls. Coke on every mirror Pills in every couch. It’s not a party here until somebody’s dead. Platypus women and weasel men dressed not fashionably, nor like rejects dressed like they can’t quite clothe themselves at all match their sense with their socks. Separate from society, they have no need to rebel; Too close to the source of empathy they’ve lost the ability to sense any mind but their own, collective, unconsciousness… A lesser extrovert would be terrified but you feel more you than ever: this is a fantasy you never quite understood you had. You hold your liquor and your water long after your host is past passing Here, style and grace the only virtues you’ve known are the only measure of a man And the less real your surroundings the more real you seem as seeing is always believing and what is believed will always be seen One woman in particular loves to hear your warless words. You grease the thighs between her eyes and watch her skin twitch slightly under the weight of your superior, selfish logic. You let her wrap herself into the shapes you want her to need and as her moments come to a head you see a subtle sign-- before unnoticed-- flashing in the corner: Do not tease the animals. Do not tease the animals. Although they are not capable of making threats… This is not a request.
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