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you are nothing.
you'll believe everyone.
superimposing your red sweater with their green tshirt.
gold purple.
royal colors.
on ornamental.
casual removal.
careful suiting.
turning and holiday
dulling and holding.
and you'll send canisters, nuts mostly
describing your future, youre future. the patented and painted version
sold to you buy corporations, sexy, orificial shaped food items ready for consumption and emboldingening
and boldening. this process whereby your realizing her needs are captured by your needs, this realizing, collapses and you cry because you can't be equals.
society, little children, automobiles, your dog, the television, the grass, the insects in your back yard, the rotation of the earth, the memos on vague corporate visions, all want you to become their leader, their messiah, the anti-christ, and a master facsist black belt.
this scraping sensation doesn't feel good. the donning of a crown not for your head, the machismo, the respect you must command, the earth should begin to tremble, you realize this right? the caverns are waiting, to echo your holy works.
etchings foretelling of the greatness you shall spread about the backyard grill. digests and theory elucidating further rumor about the coming of yourself.
this is the capital creation. this is the econ. the class dance. poor and rich aligning in the stars
under gallantry and rustic piss puddles to praise the almight man.
this is the cringing i wanted to speak
of in longwinded thrusting
styles.
the accumulation
of a big bunch of
manhood by realizing
love was somehow handed
to those so bitter, they
betrayed and gave into every
thing they hated most
in life. the proliferation
of the proliferated.
the bizarre
shaped
everything.
it wears you out so much, you might just be able to fight it.
and you'll sigh and be lonely for a little longer, hoping that
perhaps through some cheesy attempt and integrity or nothing,
you will, at least live the life of the afflicted.
your own personal cross.
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