frozen in ice
I pull my intestines out
covered in red slime.
you don’t want to live no more,
discount your soul; fling yourself onto your colossal floor-board,
a peculiar shade of blue,
that highlights the otherwise unnoticed view,
of your body, your soul: find the nearest drugstore.
You are not mad.
Count to one-hundred: your idealistic socialism can
make you still: still of flare.
Flare; the fiery smear shared so saintly,
the dainty optimism of a functionalist kind.
You live no more,
the life you imagined,
has found the drugstore
that sold popped cans and bins of pills
pills and pills: medicinal gills
that are meant to make you breath, but doesn’t
You’re depressed, don’t mistake it for want.
You have reached the end,
now relive your nostalgic floor-board
that gave you air.
Die a mysterious death, free of care:
you misinterpreted me – you sad bore,
locked away in a cup-board! A miserable whore,
damn your soul and your condescending mind:
only a delinquent who is shaded by bourgeoisie pride.
I am decomposed now, your words do not penetrate
my manifested mind.
And as my particles accumulate,
I renovate my perfect lie.
One that wasn’t lost at a rate:
as it couldn’t be bought by a snake.
perhaps you have won.
Seize my belongings, my property and more.
Seize the life that you thought for yourself:
I’ve given up! I have lost myself.