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No sense to make.
No sense to fabricate.
After the last traces
of rhythm and rhyme have been disposed of,
he places himself in that homely chair
to stare out a single window,
chain smoking until Jesus finally comes
and takes the soul away to a foreign, blissful reality.

He's late, very late.
Can do something (might as well)
with the ill-defined length of time to kill
before the second coming.

See the neighbor;
go to parties;
talk about weather;
fuck the neighbor
with every bit of passion and blood able to circulate;
loathe him,
for his undeserved superiority, misdirections,
corrections, and selfishness;
love him
because you are both going to die.

He speaks of all the particular troubles and pain in a life,
until the receiver is of no use anymore.
A napkin to soak up the spilled milk, toss, and grow sour.
"Particular" my ass!

I don't give anything to you.
Never been genuinely nice
or sadistically malicious,
but still, you pleasure me
with all of your taxes.

If I am to open my lips,
vibrate my vocal chords,
and strive each leg forward
looking for your own meaning.

And then what?
They've never heard that music before.

They've been speaking our universal abstractions
in the words of a foolish, materialistic animal,
words suggesting a colossal amount of bullshit,
found in everything I say
experiencing any certain sensation and
sucking up every drop of marrow
from the next instant that passes,

Requiring at least one party
to shovel through the excrement,
searching for what appeared to be an insignificant piece
of our four dimensional puzzle, and upon finding it,
you may see yourself a step closer to that sort of comfort

It may be okay
opening eyes to any precarious morning
and continue feeling the drops of love
splashed on your naked body.
It's unfortunate there isn't another pair
of latex gloves for my protection.
"Bare handing" it,

Not even my own shit.

After that day that leads up to an ass in a chair,
Closed lips, soft dick, stiff fingers exposing dirty nails,
and an abundance cigarette butts
stained with red lipstick,

waiting for maturity and ability to articulate,
waiting to pass on particular troubles and pains
to my messiah,

Jesus got lost in the panhandle of Texas.




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Vocas from the Tom Tom Denton, Texas

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