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Chaos Is Poetic Prose

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Big Empty

big empty bed
overflowing head
spewing brain cells

why
why bother
why care
why doubt
the fact that you even care

big empty bed
tossing and turning
burning and burning
more emptiness returning

hell is that way
and i'm right here
so just go
anywhere but here or there


see for yourself

blank pages
empty eyes
empty gazes
filthy smiles
happy as a pig in mud
lost like a deer in headlights
mezmerized by filth
incapacitated to feeling guilt

if you're not deaf, then listen
if you're not blind, then look
if you're not stupid, then seek
have some feeling,
if you haven't been desensitized.


BLEMISH

an impatient and self righteous hand
rips hunks of bread from the loaf,
refusing to digest them,
compelled instead
to cram them
down the throats of starving children.
forced-feeding leads to induced vomiting.
soon the bullemic craves that which repulses him
and purges his soul
in the presense of the offended hypocrite.
psychopathetic sympathy
distorts reality for a greater cause.
empathetic apathy
savors the flavor from the back of the tongue
while encircling the betrothed harlot.
black-eyed, blue-eyed bride
can't decide;
"is this right?"
meanwhile the dismembered and severed bullemic reacts
according to his disillusioned perception.


Tribal Weave

insensitivity
clouds my pride
deep inside,
and i ask myself,
"how can i tell?"

rear your head
poison lead,
molded dead.

rip my heart out.
look at it.
examine the bootprint.
examine the void.
see my need.
crush my flesh,
break my heart,
make me bleed;

and i ask myself,
"who am i?"...
"WHO AM I!?"
i am knot.
and i ask myself,
"what am i supposed to be?"
i am knot.

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