In magazine slip outs, I theorized that the objects of my eyes
weren't worth the time I spent trying to metabolize and recognize
That holes and hair and dirt breath flooded my dreams
Made me to fit to scheme methods of making madness seem clean
and made me to fit to sing dirges for my dying urges
Splurges to coddle her, like green leaves to a toddler
Disgusted me to the point of clinging to the bottles I earned
To the point of having a sexist breakfast with my two left plastics
And passing the last glass to a leftist cynic
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