"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

An Aesthetic for Moral Conservation


But you cannot,
The liquor is emetic for your tongue!
And too cancerous to have been the blood
Of your ideal one.

You murderer and a tumult in vain…
A shame, yet only to myself
That there is no one to avenge
My death, wrenching from the pain
Of sorrow for my health.

Punished naturalistically
With being a mere extension of art
My claw invites itself, drunken
Through the reconnoitered membrane of
A la carte,
Piece by pre-ordered release
From the sadistically
Ill-gotten manifest-ees
Of a preordained,
Obligatory function.

-Saturday, December 20, 2008

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