poetry in a spit -or- prose scares the shit outta me
i think in scenes
the product of a generation's worth of movie reels
short film festivals
and youtube self made...
men?
thought burst
come means gone
method man is dead you hear
picture yourself a poet
i underestimate you
on purpose
i don't respect you
and make no effort to make it different
refuse improve
because i believe it fact
i can't trust you
how many years the burden on this side
authority questioned
have you heard
yourself
ask the dumbest questions
you've been let off easy you
careless sons of bitches what's the depth of a circle i swear to god i will kill you
cause man i tell you
dumb just is not enough
you don't deserve the word
frankenstein had it easy his monster had balls
i have to put up with loud cowards
who'll drown my voice and not their own
when they've been prodded like cattle
to the slaughter
the machine my scorn
fuck you
and the horses you rode in on
actually
no
not the horses
they have an excuse
I have decided that I am, in fact, the representative of a new movement in art. This new movement began two and a half minutes ago when I was in the washroom stretching my penis from the tip of the foreskin up and away from my body so I could get the skin of my shaft and testicles taut enough that I could comfortably and deliciously scratch for as long as it was before the new movement took hold of my attentions. It will last as long as I live, and it will be unparalleled everywhere and for all time. No one who does not understand it will appreciate it, and anyone who appreciates it will be deemed insane or ignorant. I am the pinnacle of human artistic achievement. Art is the challenge of aesthetic paradigms and my movement defines itself by its continuous challenge to itself, ergo, my movement encompasses all of art, from four or five minutes ago to eternity, and is self-perpetuating. Therefore my movement is art. Forever. Therefore I declare myself the winner. Of art. I win art.
This got scary.
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