in the dead comma,
what does your stomach play?
Mines? It draws acacia embedded
against I assassinated dot.
I got a cup of scars;
here take a sip.
Sway to the noteless veto.
Two little platypus
moan like rapturous cobra,
Rewind history back to the year 3384.
If you should rape semi-colon
don’t bother selling matadors
who sign adjectives in seconds.
You heard me Oscar Wilde
Nietzsche, Carl Marx, myself included.
Take my hand –
futures exist under the suicide act.
Look! No cavities for me to sow –
get me out!!! The hopeless introvert ponders.
My nipples swim around each other
like robo-eels training for kung-Fu
and all the batteries assemble a heart.
Enough already let me be player 2 instead;
okay, now give me a bottle of absinthe, night, night, Satan.
Copyright © 2016 Charlie Zero the Poet
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