a poem for today, 12 April 2012
[a syllable sorted sonnet of fourteen sentences and its image]
We are the gods now.
The ugly fucking truth period.
Search multiple search engines for men wearing bras.
It's fun.
It is like someone who puts a parenthesis, who drives away the bad memory.
I believe in shape-shifting with truth.
This is what it's like being trapped in a perfect world.
I am like a magnet to intrigue.
Psychology is nothing but the confused image of we have of our own body.
Do it.
It forces himself to try to tear off the skin.
Assimilation is complete.
Shot dead.
Let the Hun do that.
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