Die, die.

I

Die, die

frozen in ice

I pull my intestines out

covered in red slime.

II

die, die-

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.

III

die. Die.

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.

IV

Die. Die.

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.

V

Die Die.

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.

VI

I am decomposed now, your words do not penetrate

my manifested mind.

VII

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.

VIII

die die.

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.

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