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And Your Bird Can Sing - A Poem In Three Acts

I
everything was painted in a neon haze, luminous
gas discharging, sunbathing corpses washed up onto the
foamy shore, littering the California beach
óreiðu, people packed like sardines, drugged out and deliriously violent
spewing woozy synths pulsating
throughout the depraved iznīcināšana

“Whatta bunch of mungos.”
“Whatta Repugnante, sólo un montón de putas.”
"I love you."

i had to leave.
we parted ways and i began walking along the beach
the early morning sunlight danced on the water
looking like a stadium
full of flashing cameras
swimmers tore through the waves
i thought about the bitter taste of cocaine running down
the back of my throat and fell asleep
in the sand

ich hasse diesen Unsinn
Die Stadt lag in Schutt und Asche

i was woken up by screams
explosions
car alarms
black smoke and
chaos
thick orange flames began to engulf everything
concrete cracking, buildings burning, people dying
nevó por la mañana después, covering the rubble
with a pristine and forgetful white

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II
defecating donkeys dig dreary desolation, defying death
hurting, hunting, hustling
passionately at the altar of plagues
masking the scents of
the thousands of subhumans
mindlessly repenting into
their rotting brains.
"We must bleed," they declared to
the lexicon devil, “We must.”
who couldn't
control his ecstasy at the sight
of blood.
his thick pink tongue pulsated as
god looked down and said
"That's a pretty big donkey dick."

later that night
i thought about
drowning myself
in the frozen lake
cracking the ice with
a simple jump
the achingly cold rush
shivering as i
sink below
no one would ever find me
or know where i went.
my organs would freeze
lungs would fill with water
then

concrete slabs
and dabs
in the state park bath house.
the morselhoarder watches from
the peak of the pine tree
and screams at the
ink running down
his face
the dirt below is littered
with dead leaves
sticks
pinecones
snack wrappers
cans
half-melted snowbanks
“Stop that man,” he yelled.
syödä
uni
die
lopeta tuo mies
like a cat staring at a bag of trash

“Huh?”
“Si.”
“Why are you?”
“What’s wrong with hanging brain?”
“Don’t.”
“That’s not.”
“Yes.”

III
i miss those nights
where we stayed up drinking stale blood
because the well dried up.
i always laughed when you spat it out
at strangers. they’d scream
and run off and you’d smile and smile.
i always loved that.

i miss running through the cloudless night
like rabid dogs, salivating at the sight
of flesh and falling asleep in your soft skin,
infected from my fingertips.
i said i didn’t mind your blistered lips and
you fell asleep first, talking about all the trifling nonsense
that consumed you. so i kissed your forehead and
went to sleep.

i miss waking up
in the Mojave morning
and drinking from the irradiated spring.
we’d wander and
laugh about our blood-stained teeth
and how
the trees looked like royal pine air fresheners
when we hallucinated.

i really miss you.