Appreciate a bag of jumbled letters
to an audience of idiots, like yourself.
Understand what means nothing to anyone,
as to blossom into a old, fresh spun web.
Discuss the work of a drunkard; of a wife beater;
of a cheater; of the town whore who lies to you.
Discuss the shit that has always been labled art;
discuss it and adorn yourself in popularity.
Is it good to be loved? Do you think of it alone?
Or are you as she who wants he to be hers by being his untimely demise by her caressing of oblivous ideas that his body craves yet hers is his, til it's theirs.
Appreciate anything that is not the norm,
that wasn't born with a silverspoon.
Understand the fact I know you lie to me
in order to get a hard cock of a rad guy in your stinking gash.
Discuss how you fake an orgasm as to heave
a thousand collectables into your attic.
Do you understand? Do you love my art?
I fucked you because you were there.
I wrote this becaue I don't care.
I got rid of you because you're not there.
You just pretend to be, but all you are is pussy.
Now comment on the genius of the honesty
that is created in my poetry.
On how the lack of metaphor instills honesty
that is created in my prick.