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99 Cent Prices

Everything sold in bright colors to attract your irises—everything to be sold at the perfect 99 cent prices.
What is one to do?
To consume, to burn and use then throw away, to take and turn forward from the sway, then all will fade away: the pattern, the question we answer without thought,
then the answer, like being born without choice, with a crying voice,
burning true as ice while the paradox we suffer and derive pleasure from, forms, grows like sex with cum that spreads like fungus then ends like the battle boy who defends with the no understanding—the war is over.
No understanding that the cover is coming with soaked boots and frozen fingers, penis and ass shaking, like the philosophy of economy, monotony, numbers blinking but no true value demonstrating, we are headed towards the end.
The head, the mind, the crystal chandelier, flooding the world with colors blinding, while the bird chained to the skyway,
the pathway,
the road way,
the train years passing, with one rambling boy lost on the caressing but yet shaking rainbow destiny of the calamity beginning?
Is this the way the human race is supposed to dance? A violent sexual tango—
one half lost and one half self assured—
while the guillotine waits, time’s fates, all the possibilities, all the gates shut but the colors of what can be bought from dirty hands to make clothes clean, mean, shimmering green and sapphire dreams of peace and war,
while we sleep,
only to wake and find we are but simple sheep making sounds that limit what we really see.

Oh mama, how can we dream with reality crushing those pretty irises, at rising 3.99, 5.99, 600,567, and 19.99 prices?
Oh mama, don’t think there is no hope, but it is fleeting. It’s meeting with GOD AND THE DEVIL over tea, over blood and soul,
Tous les dieux fabulation sur qui est d’être le génie,
where and when will the savior come so ironic but iconic, moronic and simplistic?
Which comes to hope Mama?
When will the end come without a period but a comma; when will the hope come, like a crystal shattered naked goddess bathed with golden dust that covers foreign sands? We wish and we pray, for so many—so many ways to walk and talk, to spark and eat like sharks, to demand, like a bi polar bear deciding with which claw to break the ice he loves and hates for he knows no other land?
Hope, shit on the pope, that drag queen can lay her clit out for all to stimulate, but still when will the pleasure come? The orgasm is meeting but then you must go home, alone, with 1500 phones attached to the teen idols’ chests and 1,000,000 faces attached to the man with the plan, the man with the clan he will never meet, buying coffee and tea—
speaking of Keats and Einstein all dead over our crimson irises while we dine with meat and wine at 69.99 prices?
Yes, they dance silhouetted by the sea, the circus sands leaving their waltzing footsteps, and the silver moon rising, like the blood and sun constantly phasing, leading each other a 24 hour period to one long day, hope in one cycle, hope on one long orgasmic splurge—only to be passed to the next messiah,
whoever it may be,
man,
woman,
child,
dog,
essence of fog,
or lightening bolt.
How is god created? When was he born? When was illusion made to believe that it could relieve the vices that come from the fooling 99 cent prices?
Oh mama, calm me, calm my burning soul! Make me a clam, white and wet, buried under sand, never to be disturbed or unearthed... do they dream and if so do they dream of little digital lights, idols of burning sun breaking lights, of cops stopping you, of the pain of birth, or forced rape through the ass, or perfect hands intertwined by the calming sea with fish swimming freely?
Mama, oh mama, did you plan this?
Oh mama, did you make this?
Of pain and of love I shall never know both, because I choose to be a Clam,
who lives without crisis, with no irises, with no vices, without sunsets, or romantic dreaming lovers with tales too personal to tell—of truck stops with fake foods, or speed or tranquilizers, anti psychotics or manmade mind erasers, red swollen sores, or children with long bloody swords forced to fight in wars.
No sapphires,
no jasmines,
no mining caverns,
or advanced implications that lead to presidential assassinations—no guns, no hugs, no drugs, no nothing, no all encompassing information or bikes or words like
Kike—
or cold in which I shiver, or pain in phrases like
Nigger—
all and nothing. But hope, it must exist for clams, burrowed deep in black brownish mud, along with the crud we buy with irises full of moth-like desires at 99 cent prices.
Oh mama,
the child is gone,
the man is gone,
his hands are numb,
chew gum,
you’re still a bum,
just go pick up a gun and kill a nun,
give a kiss to a baby born,
gaze upon a rainbow for the last time,
forget the rhyme,
for it only exists in the time I’m saying it.
Reject or accept, your irises full of blinding azure and purple studded cobra defense and crystalline faked faded and baked ignorance, like dreaming the president doesn’t have a penis that dangles like most.
Your father, whether post man or an idealist,
with dreams that the sick possess or genius lament—
he is human, not a clam.
To be a Nigger, to be black,
to be a Kraut or German,
to be a Wop or a slop or a clopping horse driving miss valiant Valentino down to the corner store to buy herself a whore,
or an entity that feels the earth’s heart beat burning in a liquid iron core.
Be like me, whoever that may be.
Be like a outlaw without care or vice who must resist the  99 cent lie price.
Oh mama, why did you bring me here when I could’ve been a clam?
Shame, love, hate, lust, desire or poetry...
I dare you to stand with a diamond sword facing God, and challenge him to question his intentions, his attentions, his motivations—for if he is eternal, he must have before wondered if he is evil or right, must have had his own internal fight, right?
And if he’s left, we have our own souls to lead us.
We cannot be clams, however we wish to be so, deep in time’s hand, deep in reality, deep in and through words, deep in the sky like birds with broken wings falling, wondering what’s worse: hitting the ground or what lies beyond?
Oh clams have it lucky, they have it all.
They have what we haven’t got... well until they are taken. Taken like my mind has.
Will this end mama, will this fade? Will all be sold in bright colors to attract my irises—to be sold, and abandoned like a raped beauty queen in a utopia at 99 cent prices?
The world will not end like the poets say—Byron and Elliot, Frost or Shelley, Plath or Dylan. It’ll end in prices, to buy or not to buy, at least in the years 2014 and on,
Where I now begin at the End,
with no diamond sword yet to defend.
Let the next messiah die,
so we can be left to our own devices facing the changing places, giving or receiving graces, this is 2014, and our crimson ever expanding irises only grow with the lie of 99 cent prices. Oh mama, how I wish I was a clam...

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