"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

Und Keine Eier

A bloody and wretched
ill-gotten mess
Together we fester
Despite our informed
Imagination.

Vice for vice
Trading as our infected razors
Incise
This perfected
Creation.

Should I censure, alone
Or respect and
Ingest your
Self-dictated demise…
Would thee request
A removal of my own
For you?
Intertwined degenerates…
In a soliloquy
Through dialogue
And relational abuse.

Perused is inheritance
Sodden, everything we do
And every supple,
Undeniable egg-crate
Is a form of Deja Vu.

-Sunday, January 11, 2009

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