My written fist in your face.
The Last Act
and no reaction,
I still can’t get no satisfaction.
The dead yeti shields his faceless mope
but cannot live on bread
Holy smoke of Lucifer’s sun shadow
on her neck, in her hair,
down a dark stairwell to my doomed brother,
Temple walls at the hurry fall
to the voice of an impatient scatterbrain,
in the same cheap business cloak
of someone brewing up a storm,
drained of any former emotional connection.
He can’t even heal the lame.
It’s just a game. It’s just a game.
Cross myself, rested on my laurels
rested on my health.
Where’s the wealth? The crown you ask?
You are loved.
The Joker’s laugh. It’s true!
The first shall be last,
I’m always out on my homeless fucken ass.
Who gives a damn?
Take another hit from His creative hand.
I caught your code 4.20 slogan.
shotgun martyr Anno Domini fire
witchcraft, the third eye and the suicide messiah.
I hate my job.
Any work without benefit is a dangerous occupation.
What are you selling?
A product of my own design.
It’s probably just pride fucken with me.
I’m still at war with all things great and small
Peace and Love be with y’all.
If at first you don’t succeed,
kill yourself again
Or shoot a porno with Stoya.
The lil death,
better off Dead.