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I am born paranoid into a frightened world and am a stranger to those who love me; only known by the people that don't know me knowing them by the bottles we pick up and down into nickel a word stories shooting shot glass poems into automatic recycling receptacles like a life size chutes and ladders down we go on razor blade slides into a school of piranha beneath a termite ladder. Lombardo's Liquor is open just a couple of rungs away to get the gas to become the greatest shit wallower to ever type "I" but what's the point? it is luxurious to write poor me poetry for other wanderers opting less fortune and I am no different in my self contained servitude than the worst overly concerned recycling machine
high on the Nyquil dopamine leaping blank damp spaces yelling how everything sucks but doing nothing outside circular advancement toward more escapist weakness falling fast into the vast void of failing I don't know who the artists are anymore so who cares that I turn on the stove like a barrel fire under an overpass where Bukowski argues with Celine over a bottle of absinthe while Whitman fears Rimbaud's disease and all their fangs still sharp from eating the vanilla soft skin of artists living chat room lives creating nothing from behind raised pinky wine glasses and Jeffers with his chest ripped open cleaning dried blood from his fingernails with shrapnel tells me the tears my eyes have shit makes great fodder for the pigs to play their cocky pock games in and Buk spits out a swill of 'sinthe leering red eyed slurs "I've got an instant message for you-how about I'm going to eat the next wheat grass liver I come across then piss on his teeth."
"Fuck piss." Celine flashes a scalpel smile burning because he tried like Whitman tried to purify the path for democracy and Rimbaud howls sardonic laughter because he realized futileness while living amongst angelic hypocrites
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