I've outgrown the hibernaculum I was sewn into at birth--the beast cannot be tamed by suppressing the lungs and drowning them in liquors darker than the sludge inside our bellies. And full those bellies have grown; pregnant by the Bourgeois hands that are fat from a materialistic complex as though the bounty hung before them is silk and succulent on the tongue (as they are cut from the mouths). These minds are like rot in the veins, and they permeate, and they anchor, and they sink into our bones only to remind me that there is always an ocean to swallow swallow swallow down if the land is too dry.
"Perfection" Should be a profanity Consigned to myth We are taught to aspire To live a life That doesn't exist. Glossy paper And saturated colour Feeds us a fiction Force asphyxiation Because you will live average Statistically And will not become The thing of dreams Staring out of magazines.