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Optics

12 Jul
It runs amok inside of my head.
It arrogantly prances as if I were dead.
It thumbs its nose whenever I try
to quell its intelligence-insulting lie.

It bleeds the eyes with the morning news.
It voids in me with its monstrous views.
It winds me up as a talking head,
then perturbs me at night when I go to bed.

Sliding along, biding our time,
or still soaking up the trumpeted slime,
it's all the same; the hogwash is rank.
Requiring a clyster to empty the tank.








 
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Posted by on July 12, 2021 in Poetry

 

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