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in soviet russia, fist shake you


Kr430n5_666

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the ash-black machinery of night

gesticulates rapidly as the belicose movie star

puts his hair into a ponytail. my hierarchy of needs is equivalent

to an asymetrically drawn

maslow grid

tilted slightly at 11 degrees to

match the earth's axis.

how much pain does it take before you become painless,

and where are the candy-coated

tricycle handlebars

when you really need them?

insipid surly triaminic wafers

mushed into fragility and hazy non-conformity.

western skies or frizzly fries, it doesn't matter which color of pleated crepe paper you choose to make your shirt from.

dance with the twinkling stars as if they were the real heavens,

the pinkos whispering lies

to the children chatting existentially in turtle-necked splendor

just like their rotten parents. my guts

have been wrenched to fit into a heart-shaped box

and thinking just makes me want to put them in a blender.

a thousand words aren't worth a song

and what's more the raven is actually a crow. my pet

who lives where we do and has grown to enjoy its own silence.

the catastrophic waitress

is my mother bearing a frightful christmas

disguise and slanging chain mail to her homies

on the street corner. it's all just

another hand of blackjack, honey:

 

enjoy your soviet russia.

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