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F***ing Machines (Dead Porn Stars, Tramadol and Bitten Skin)

July 25, 2013

ninetythree

All personality is puppetry.
Though, better affectation than ennui.
Better pretension than paucity.
When most live in such poverty.
Without a pot to piss in.
No wonder these poets have so little to offer us.
Proffer profundity then deliver us platitudes.
And don’t we fawn and pay our alms?
Pity paid forward or obsequies gratitude.
A plurality of kings all playing the fool.
In promise of profit by that Golden Rule.
Where’s their passion?
Where’s their pain?
Never confuse movement with action.
Never confuse possession with gain.
When the audience is gone.
Only their popcorn remains.
Not for me, my friend.
I’ll drink to despair.
Like the men I admire.
To the bitter fucking end.
Here’s one in your eye and one to your health.
I’ll never tell you a lie I wouldn’t tell myself.

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From → Poetry

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