Puerile corpo-fascist drivel, flowing unfettered into my life like ugly-bad pisswater. I find Islowly die, in the head then my heart shrivels like sweaty balls already removed, metaphorically.
Why must I endure these suffocating situations sitting repeatedly, ass cheeks clinched, tongue bitten down on hard, suppressing a scream?
I am neither poet chasing immortality nor lover of sweet Sophie engaged with mythic journey becoming something more.My life as father, less than nothing in this room.
In a callous sub-culture devoid of spiritual sustenance, a corporate culture, I am a very small sad piece of dog shit, sitting solitary, in a room, surrounded by the dead and dying growing always smaller, passing time.
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