Communist loud mouths
message messianic proverbs
of commercial products downfall,
and the prophetic profit for
poor people is caught in a pendulum
swing of procrastination,
and poetry writing.

“None of it matters anyways.”
A Jewish scribe whispers,
misleading Christians, because
they’re the chosen ones, all
of you are simpletons.

“Do it again daddy!”
Daffy Duck dreams of fucking
Senor Rabbit to sleep; but in
the end it’s all about the race
anyways.

Semantics, the attention deficit
disorder, I stand accused of.
I can’t listen to the ones
practicing the art of social
anxiety, just so you can do nothing
but remain silent.
I can’t be confused, I’ve confiscated
your premeditated regurgitation
of historical inaccuracy, your
simplistic purpose system.
Daffy Duck longs to fuck Senor
Rabbit to sleep; it’s all about the
race anyways.

A somber, sober message, aged
as the perfume of a flower dying
gracefully.
The breeze spreads its scent,
not sense. Captivating the majesties
servants serving solitude, isolation,
complete surrender.

“Now that was a bit rude.”
“That was nothing, allow me
to get even more profuse in my
use of profane sentiments of
disdain.”

The power performed by these
two eyes. Analysis, the most robust
guest list filled with integrity’s informant
lisp, fumbling circumspect evidence
for respectful reverence.

It’s all just tacky decorative
analogies anyways.
“Do it again daddy!”
Daffy Duck longs to fuck Senor
Rabbit to sleep; but in the end
it’s all about the race anyways.

The ones who practice the practical
art of social anxiety, mathematically,
although meticulous as it may be,
separate the haters, from the ones
hated. The angry seethe for a
definitive purpose, behind their
anal retentive nuances.

How else can pedophilic priests
justify their legitimacy?
Stop plea bargaining with Papal
fallacy.
“Turn the rule, revile the lie.”
The scribe scribbles.
The hand writing time makes no
mistakes, excuses no excuse,
never asks why one asks while
lying when answered to.

Now I can relieve myself under
Buddha’s tree, breathing ever so
slowly, so I may feel the heat leave.
“That’s blasphemy. wait, the
Buddhists have no system, no alter
to offer sacrifices to.”

“Now I’m confused.
You’ve confiscated my religious
views, immolating them to a God
full of lamentations.
As a dictator prescribes pain, never
the way out of this psychotic mind
game I play.”

Democracy mocking me, upon
a puddle being pissed away by the
scholars of entropy.
A thousand lives cleansed by
power struggling hands, severing
heads, and limbs.
Logic is filtered for filibuster, calming
the angry, and soothing the swell
of animosity cured by antibiotic
media mainstream.

“Do it again daddy!”
Daffy Duck longs to fuck senor
Rabbit to sleep; but in the end,
it’s all about the rat race anyways.