Can’t stand most of what I see online, there’s no question about that. There are a bunch of micro versions of myself out there spewing the parts of me they like and think might be able to make something of. Cut my arms off to have them operated by others, that’s what it’s come to. I’ve got some left overs that I can get the little bit of writing worth doing done with. Let go the thing that they’re holding up so that they can hold you, lift that breast to check the spots. Put a nipple in your baby’s mouth. Put your baby’s nipple in your mouth. Show me your dick in your wife’s pussy. Let it be seen for yourself going down. There are spells we can cast to portray ourselves better than the narrowmindendess you are forcefully defending.

I pray to the neighbors. I’ve got to believe in life. Nobody has five shits to give me. I don’t know what gold even looks like. All I do is practice. There’s nothing wrong with the process. I’ve melted my pen and paper into a stream of ink. Am I not better for it? Can you not with me now sleep with greater ease? Can you not now fall into our night together?

I have no doubt that one day you could be good. Right now though, you’re bad. Why? Because you’re obnoxious. I don’t hang with obnoxious people, and I don’t read people that I don’t want to hang around.


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