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Posthumous Wrath

I’m a professional acid caster.
A fucking disaster.
I feel so alive
when I’m killing the american dream.
 
They made me stand
out in the hall,
You know it all
when you’re 17.
 
Don’t vote.
Drop out.
And laugh like hell.
 
This was the original motto.
 
Then I voted for a loser that won,
Then a winner that lost
and we’re all still losing.
 
Full circle, baby.
It’s a psychedelic trap.
 
Maybe I’m droll
sitting on this futon—
But when the clowns come for me
I’m not leaving without fucking them back.
 
So, go get your shovel, you drudge!
You gotta dig to find me,
I’m not your average shaman.
There’s a lot of bullshit in this grave—
And the flies don’t even know their way around.
 
Because they’re fucking flies.
There’s no subtle meaning
If you’re still alive.
If you still have a brain.
If you still want the fame,
If you still think there’s time for the moon to wane.
 
You can either
God bless The United Capitalist Pharmacy of Segregation
or suck your defective erection to death.
I never planned to live this long.
 
Now I’m left with the wreckage of
a teenage accident.
 
No fear was the game.
 
It still is.
 
But now I’m wiser and I don’t leave tips,
I ignore the taste of my blood-chapped lips,
I still cry once in a while like a kid with clubbed legs
But I collect the tears now, and save the salt for my eggs.
 
And as much as I want to read other poets;
I refrain.
The secret to being original
is remaining ignorant.
I’m good at that.
 
So I stay astray,
I radiate disarray,
I fucking hate reading anyway.
 
I just write down my acid
and laugh like hell—
If you only knew
how I do it so well.
 
My audience won’t exist for at least a hundred more years—
I live for invisible people.
 
Yes, recycled souls that are plastic and still here.
Marinated in beer,
Mutated by fear.
 
They are just not ready yet—
For my wrath is posthumous.
 
My ego is so distorted now.
But then—someday in the glorious future—
Then it will be magnificent and shine
Like some newfangled steel dildo resembling that of the son of god.
 
And I won’t have to be there to stroke it.
 
There will be an entire culture with one great big hand
wrapped around my estranged ideals.
Estranged from this antique anti-utopia.
 
Hopefully they get it.
 
I labored so hard on it,
I designed it so well
On my fucked-up futon
as I laugh like hell.
 
With a hard-on.
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