Confessions sell well but I’ve been broke
for a long goddamned time,
longer than my dark everest is.
I must be a monk who’s lost his mind
to look like this, filthy and plaintiff.
The sailor in my mouth needs to fuck off
cause now it’s time to tell I’m not creative.
I’m telling! Well bitch tell it
like your daddy told your mama you weren’t shit.
Nor were you shit, so, confess. Take your clothes
back off the floor and cover that bush.
I know you were named after a piece of candy
but that’s the problem of that hog
that pushed you out squealing like slaughter.
You smoke too much and act like coughing
is the new poets’ disease. You aren’t Keats,
bitch, you aren’t the first asshole either.
You’re a goddamned tramp too afraid to enjoy it,
being a tramp, you’re a goddamned god
to the roaches you let rent out the box
you live in and never clean. Now how in the fuck
can a person even tell what’s a nice box
and what’s the kind of shit you inhabit
like it’s a goddamned petting zoo of alien species?
Well I can tell as well as you can tell.
Or would if you got sane, cause bitch, let me
tell you something, your fingers are sterile,
your ears are clotted, your eyes are fucking evil.
Talking to you is like talking to an abyss,
to a catfish, to a retard’s retarded cock.
The only product something living thanks you for
are your shit-eating roommates, and let me say
shit is cheap in the scheme of things.
Your love-letter is like a goddamned primer
for kids who wallow in their peas and shit
and still sound like fucking Freud on cocaine.
Speaking of habits and not of hygiene bitch,
do you think you can let me hide your pills
and not treat it like a game of hide and seek?
You’re a goddamned drug-seeker and no bitch
your doctor can’t be fooled by failed experiments
the Nazis must have hatched in your mama.
To not have an oven you sure as shit burn through
tin foil like it was pure H20 and you were stranded
in the middle of the desert that is your mouth.
All that foil like I can’t tell what carbon looks like
when it’s stained like a goddamned funeral pyre
over the residue of whatever you sucked in
like it was money polluting the air we shared.
I share the same air with monkeys and dogs
who don’t even fuck right and let me tell you
I feel sorry they share that air with a skank.
You look pretty bad too but that’s not fair game
or it wasn’t until the bitch in you jumped out
waving your bitch-flag at me in surrender
after you told the whole goddamned tenement about
who I slept with or was and I had to lay all kinds
of shit right on your forehead with my fist.
Yeah, bitch, I knocked you out like I was Ali.
I got problems too. Your ass on the other hand
needs an enema and a lobotomy or something
real fucking drastic cause let me tell goddamn it
it’s getting real hard to be you.


~ by Jeremy on January 10, 2011.

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