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spit words like madness
from your tongue, slurring
and belligerent
abusive and beautiful and take these
words and splice them together
with other ones and then
call it art,
or philanthropy
or suicide, its your call, its your vision.
and then take the ink from the paper
and cover yourself with it
like ancient war paint
and douse yourself
in gasoline, like all of the other old sports,
the young hearts and golden oldies
who stepped into the ring of fire
just as you are now,
and burnt themselves,
their starved, tired bodies
for the sake of possibly one day
maybe catching a glimpse of
some form of meaning in
martyrdom and false prose.

babble on
about doom like its more than an acquaintance,
like you go way back, eons ago
for centuries you’ve found yourselves
at the same bar, drinking the same
piss beer
and rot gut wine and
sometimes talk about the old days
that never happened because
outside of these walls and
this typewriter
your words have never scratched doom
or felt pain, loss or suffering
other than the suffering of words
trying to strangle you from the inside
but just tell them to fuck off
and eventually they’ll
get the message.

– r.f.g

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