10-04-2024, 06:15 PM
The density of my death parts the waves of my what now?
The very filter of my necessity, uncurtains in valves of promiscuity.
O Fountain of Safety, dry up, and drip in angry assortments of people's feelings
the don't give a shit coolness that
would make Anna Delvey like me ---
for audacity,
not mine,
but drips
dripping
wet
there is no sadness in the rejection.
Tears cry like burps. Farts the feeling of which are not dry
but love of what is and will not be.
Death.
A rotting corpse -- not dry
Cake and Too
for River Phoenix Not
There is a toss
that awakens a magic bean,
an acre of wall around
a dry thing
that becomes
a series
of liquid
fluidity;
an acre of wall
around a dry spot.
This spot,
a genius,
a captain of land,
opens a mansion,
a retard of and.
God is a ghost,
nostalgia defined.
Wet as a retard. Words
Trans- aligned.
I am wet;
I am angry.
I don't exist
at all.
Like some unruly celebrity,
my existence is a fall.
Sin
is stupid:
I'm not,
are you?
My tears are dry
as a dead cunt
in my dead imagination
cuz there is no such thing as a dry Imagination.
There is not real death
when a poet is masturbating.
God is a pilgrim.
Sanitation is what?!
Alf is an '80s Icon,
two twin buttocks are a butt.
Nostalgia, a God in no pants,
no genitalia, no gust
of wind
positing anywhere.
I cried just now based on nostalgia of '80s cartoons nobody
heard of but how certain brown chairs at people's tables look kinda damp,
whether the people are old or not. Like some people your age, you know.
Cuz they are living in the houses of the people who were old and lived there in the '80s and '90s,
and now social-culture is Liquid Modernity.
cum and pussy juice is cool still taboo
and there are a few women under 20/over 50 that I would have sex with,
when the Law suits THEM
The very filter of my necessity, uncurtains in valves of promiscuity.
O Fountain of Safety, dry up, and drip in angry assortments of people's feelings
the don't give a shit coolness that
would make Anna Delvey like me ---
for audacity,
not mine,
but drips
dripping
wet
there is no sadness in the rejection.
Tears cry like burps. Farts the feeling of which are not dry
but love of what is and will not be.
Death.
A rotting corpse -- not dry
Cake and Too
for River Phoenix Not
There is a toss
that awakens a magic bean,
an acre of wall around
a dry thing
that becomes
a series
of liquid
fluidity;
an acre of wall
around a dry spot.
This spot,
a genius,
a captain of land,
opens a mansion,
a retard of and.
God is a ghost,
nostalgia defined.
Wet as a retard. Words
Trans- aligned.
I am wet;
I am angry.
I don't exist
at all.
Like some unruly celebrity,
my existence is a fall.
Sin
is stupid:
I'm not,
are you?
My tears are dry
as a dead cunt
in my dead imagination
cuz there is no such thing as a dry Imagination.
There is not real death
when a poet is masturbating.
God is a pilgrim.
Sanitation is what?!
Alf is an '80s Icon,
two twin buttocks are a butt.
Nostalgia, a God in no pants,
no genitalia, no gust
of wind
positing anywhere.
I cried just now based on nostalgia of '80s cartoons nobody
heard of but how certain brown chairs at people's tables look kinda damp,
whether the people are old or not. Like some people your age, you know.
Cuz they are living in the houses of the people who were old and lived there in the '80s and '90s,
and now social-culture is Liquid Modernity.
cum and pussy juice is cool still taboo
and there are a few women under 20/over 50 that I would have sex with,
when the Law suits THEM