The Poetician's Paradise

Art sucks. Poetry sucks. Everything is fucked. I suck. You suck. So if I am so anti-everything, why do I even bother "creating" anything? Well one has to do something with one's time. Welcome to my playground. I am the Dissident Poetician. Doing Poetician stuff is what i do. "Art is dead, don’t consume its corpse" - graffiti in the streets of Paris, May 68. Long live the spirit of May 68. Piss in the fountain of dada.

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dissident poetician
i am the dissident poetician...i tear down fences with sardonic sardines and metaphysical cucumbers
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Thursday, October 16, 2014

PARANOID SCHIZOPHRENIA


stupid people are the majority

the threshold of my patience
tolerance waning, anger waxing
follow the leader straight off the cliff
cleanse the earth of gluttonous excess
it's high time for depopulation
blood coursing through prominent veins
tainted with indignation and cream
the blind eye of a lonely syringe
the dull euphoria of a bunt slut
it's a two way relationship
exploitation begets exploitation
heavy metal killing machines
cancerous fumes mixing with oil
painting a picture of petulance
wet bristles made of absolutism
contradictions contradict the truth
analgesics caressing an irate sun
the dilated pupils of the moon
on the nod in noisy contemplation
the idleness of the hyperactive rock
a polystyrene box full of diet donuts
the heftiness of an anorexic oxymoron
kissing the sharp edge of nowhere
the plastic aura of polygamous pots
excessive bucket full of onomatopoeia
she throws caution to the wind
exposing truth to be a blister
reaction to bee stings and honey
the mediocrity of excellence
the random nature of butane refills
sniffing water and drinking methane
poetic nonsense with irrational reasons
calculating the sum of idiocy
word salad with normality on the side
non sequiturs that make perfect sense
the serious nature of regurgitation
on the edge of comic regression
excelling at nothing and everything
a lottery ticket null and void
the triviality of profundity
a conclusion the precedes the climax
nonsense making perfect sense
rigid form and tradition is overrated

 

 
Posted by dissident poetician at 2:55 pm

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