i wrote a bestial poem

to stop the malevolent, counter-intuitive inspiration that recedes into core ideals. it was called the Filling and it has no form, it was mind in the second it was written in black sharpie, as it filled all the blank fucking useless gaps in my notebook with a stream so pure that a second later it would be unreadable. it was its own beast, a poem connected to the poet by an umbilical cord but it was itself and the therapy it produced was beautiful

obviously, it fell away because when kings return politicians feel weak, tumble and cry into themselves, they're reminded of exactly what naive children they are really, and that royalty destroys by stepping on factories without knowing they were there in the first place. that's how ambition really gets destroyed, when Nietzche twists it like a wet tshirt. 

the saddest thing being it really is derived from the most piss poorest weak examples of writnghood antaganisation. poets are the primordial gloop rockstars come out of, after all. that's the only line that people will care about because it sounds pretty. it doesn't even work in the narrative stream. damn, extroversion rots your soul. cynicism isn't sex appeal. i get your opinion i'm sorry this is petty i know stitch my ears and eyes to each other if you must but then you realise anything you say will be loved except when IRL doesn't and BAM suddenly your temple is dead, why can;t you publish your real work here? because there's always that mythical better community ahead beyond the clouds the moon beyond that even beyond stars and we have to reach it, this has been said before and im sorry, i know i said it already, but the pilgrimage is less if clogged up by a million travelers.

this is ridiculous. no, not this, THIS. it's a epistomoglocal position, ysee. to get people to read say "no one will read this" and the posthipsters will come flooding. i guess this will bring out more of the cynicism as sex appeal and opinion too as this really is so flat its easy to see. NOVUL is coming when i get the right tools which is really pretty stupid considering NOVUL is the third level of abstraction. this makes no sense for you but myself, all my myselfs need to understand that i am happy, life is happy, thigns will go well, i just need to get brought down by puke tbh

egoistic poetry egoistic performance art, it reeks of sharpie.

(I'm going to go write a story now.)