i gave my pound of shylock... see, objectivism would like me to be accurate claiming it was not a pound’s worth, exacted to the precise .1 gram of weight... but that just breeds confusion, and where’s the joy in that?
you were already chosen as the vessel of apathy
and gauged out eyes,
heartless economics built around insects,
and there you were being told:
make not your vessel a poured in content of a *****
but a russian girl of worth,
because, let’s face it, these girls experience daily
abuse that cannot be given a historical relevance
for all of humanity... choose a ********** to enter the empty
vessel of your content worth from apathy
and you’ll have to allow a crucifix of you worth too -
choose a nobler kind of girl to give your missing beating ***** to,
so she might quench something apparent in you...
but then she does opposite and you’re left as the *****
with sweet mammon whispering into your ear
about all the glories of the staged life to receive
bounties of rubber, plastic and dust of the entertainer’s stage...
then imagine being psychoanalysed on every page turn
just so that someone can have a job without having met you...
all the local prostitutes decided to denote me as the devil...
i just started wearing sunglasses when looking out the window at night.