is it not about
what one is feeling
at some point in time,
that differs
from a previous
attempt at creating
what is purported
to be art?
contradictions
on a collision course
with triffids.
an offering to the gods.
our primitive desires
etched into symbols,
crying out
for peer critique.
the thesaurus
comes in handy,
when the words
are not working --
conceitedness
on display
for all and sundry
to witness.
a symptom of the times,
we attempt
to proliferate
stale ideas,
dressed up
as originality.
and if Babylon
should fall,
than may our temples
be consecrated,
discarded and contused
like a battered wife.
and my musings
are but futile
in a world
devoid of reason --
a carnival of excess,
full of hatred
and self emaciation.
may the PC gods
frown upon these words :
we are all
a pack of cunts,
destined
for the scrap heap
of ubiquitous retardation.
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