A Mantra, Just Another Page in Your Book

This is not a night for sleep,

This is a night for rebellion,

no toxic city grace halls

shall light

on the dollar

shall wring our treat true.

Another page,  turned and torn.

A fragment of it’s former thought

and in complete rhyme.

Destined be the word,

The sentence and line,

sweet language.

Ah, language,

sweet language.

Said in the timing of the well fed moment

or the bohemian god-awful truth

of endless irony so cliche

its a paradox and and echo.

An echo,

An echo of an

ill sought cam girl

tortured for a dirty tampon.

Pursuit in a monkey suit

dancing for another dollar

like a good wannabe Kimye nothing

willful illiteracy!

It is a plaque and I

am the fire.

Fuel me with off

set pain’s intrusions

I am not bothered.

Pain once begot

muse

and more fuel!

Spite for where none is due

Debated whether or not

Cannot and shall not

for that which is spoken

is here to say “fie” on

you and your stream of

heavy shallow dreams exploits

and intellectualisms invented

to bring more of defined

undefineds, lost, suppressed,

and surpassed with no

knowledge of end and

stale form.

No end to bitter mirrors hypocritical crack,

long ugly and weighed down

by karma as all in knowledge or

no.

Ignore tempting thoughts

of self murder.

It is only but another page in your book.

Yes, a mantra,

just another page.

September, 2014

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