A Slight Stinging Sensation

Stressed the shit out
For reasons of paper fuckery
Not worth semi-permatizing
The writing itself soothes

The sentences can be laid empty
It’s all very direction-less and waste-full
It’s all very much like inter-national fiberoptics
It’s all very much like the tin-can-and-string

Mentally ill Speculatives
Circling up
And dutch-ruddering their way
Into believability

Sending and receiving hymns
Across narcissism tubes
The view counter
Relaying to the collective

Unconscious, Akashic, or otherwise
Whimsical, self-destructive subroutines
In Clouseau noses
And streaming fun-dip hooks

Middle-roader breaking out the anal beads
Coated in a thousand milligrams of Taurine
Yellin’, “Let’s go old school diesel with this thing!”

A smooth pull

“WHAT A RUSSHHH…”

And the people
Climaxed

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About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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