Dry Quills

Sunday,
April 29, 2012

10:03 PM

The elephants curse,

the worth of ivory.

Yet men make value
of their brutality.

Tis fashion to
suffer the savage indifference.

No King of heath
will heed my word.

Sheath my sword,

in the presence of a
lady,

In the essence of
her woman.

My truth is more
suited for indignant soil. 

I stake tents over
sleeping demons.

I do not sow.

5/4/2012 12:23 PM

Some one pass me a
fresh pack of smokes.

I do not want to
die.

Subcutaneous
inconsistent statements equally true in their description of

a bitter system.

Who needs fate
when  [you]’ve got random chance.

There is no
observer.

Immune to
circumstance.

These words come
from hell, so praise the resistor, transist your petty soul. [you] are not
impressive enough for permanent storage.

[y0u] do not deserve
eternity.

[you] are only
interesting because of {{::Who(i)aM::}}

When I am finished
there will come no period.

I unravel pages with
the comprehension of the last word.  I
foregone conclusions. I am the context for the compulsive and convulsive stabs
at abstract comprehension you contract to conceive of ‘a’ reality. I subjunct
your present infinite tense.

[you] are absolved,
but know I spend your pittance of a repentance on an investment in your future
sin. I’m selling gasoline, cigarettes, and
lottery tickets.

So I say. So it is.
Sow the damned seed, your progeny shall too suffer sweet.

5/4/2012 1:21 PM

You’re so cleopatric
queen of denial, cleptomatic stealing from the masses.

I bet you came hard
when the asp bit. Or is it only I that pair tragedy with orgasm. Seriously
though, that’s what you get for fucking “I”-talians.