Gimme the goddamn organic matches motherfuckers! (Other) by SupremeDreamer
In my petite hands
I wield little or nothing
while searching for an organic spark
to come alive amongst my thoughts
then travel along my veins
in literary adrenaline straight into
the ink chambers of my finger nails
But my mental cave is damp
as is the wood, so its come to this
"fuck it all" and now onto the instant raving,
as if enough friction might cause atoms
to split and explode among my shriveled neurons
I've found that listening to others advice
results in fuckwits suggesting I write about roses
crappy mountains shrouded in smog or some goddamn
oak tree rotting in my backyard
fuck nature, fuck the birds, and lets kill the bees
Pretty sure someones gonna say
"well, this sure ain't kosher, its like
a freshly killed pig pommelled to death"
but like everyone else, they're there to watch
as the blood drips slowly to form slender
rivulets of death and senseless destruction
fuck you, and fuck being kosher
I know, I know, anyone can sense the angst
from a few miles away, which rouses the clucking
of little pink tongues along with the slight shake
of bloated heads-- chicken, chicken, shut the fuck up
and go lay a motherfucking egg would ya?
Now would be a good time to mention
the benefits of a tight rolled joint, but yes
of course the drug talk must be the fuel for my
inspiration, the cause for writing, nevermind the fact
that I'd fall asleep before managing to type out two
puny meaningless words in a sad attempt to start
a fresh new verse for a starting stanza.
I'd regret trying to be funny, with my amphetamine version
of cheech & chong trippin the internet- but I'm too stubborn
and I had way too much fun doin the charade to wish I hadn't.
Call this fumbling for an organic match by poppin my lid
and fumigating the entire area, but lets mark this
my first "self-help piece" which won't help anyone
and I damn sure wouldn't want it to.
Well folks suggested nature- consider this rant crafted
"el natural" and plant it up your spider infested anal cellar
like I'd ever stoop to the point of cranking out the generic
golf club poet greeting card with a hallmark blue jay theme.
If you've read this all, then its time to elect me as your emperor
and scurry swiftly to fetch my jeweled jester crown shit-face.
Have a nice day.
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