Gnarl.

This is the year of poor minds,
pockets weighted to the sides of
their legs; rich in metal.
This year when those sick from
domination give little explantion of where they’ve been but gloat in
where they’re going.
They’re stuck near the top. Effortless and dirty-slick. Icarus with teflon wings
until a fireball of beauty and righteousness cascades to cull ill Karma.
Sexual; unforgiving. Old Ic’ is stingy.
Stingily absorbing televisioned trash and clapping adverts
dribbling semen and piss and shit onto unseasoned sofa’s,
forsaking friends until they’re regained with compliments
fat from sycophantic destiny…

Pt. 2 ————————————-

This is the year when the rich in mind get poorer in pockets,
and dreams.
Capitalism gains devout hum-drum broadsheet spenders and children are born into
obese and fleshy-selfish narcissistic ideals.
The poetry bleeds out from a single stab wound,
blood lapping at the entry of chilled Silver & Gold. Where internal bleeding is

stifled but rages; breaching flesh and soul. Trickling slowly towards

commercial ventures.

The year of 2013.

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