Big Dick, The Head Dickhead,
was the head of all the dickheads in the Dickhead Shed.
What made Big Dick so skilled and keen
at dickheadedness was to be seen.
Big Dick had a certain dickish flair,
for tugging at everyone's short and curly hair.
He never had an important specialty,
except for being a type-A personality.
His skills were near to nothing great.
He kinda looked like a backward ape,
with a necktie 20 years gone out of style,
and his middle-management bullshitty wiles;
"I'm better than any dickhead here!"
He'd proclaim everyday with a prickish sneer.
So they put him on his own cocky shelf,
where he could reign all by himself,
and every dickhead, prick or asshole-wanna-be,
would come to the Dickhead Shed just to see,
what they could achieve if they'd observe instead,
the ways and means of Big Dick, The Head Dickhead.
Dedicated to every single uptight, middle-management, pain in the arse
you have ever had to work with or for.
No no no, this isn’t one of those commendable confessional rants of redounded reality.
We all know where that goes and what it leads to.
This rhetoric comprises solely of the faulty intuitive comprehension and the bullshit behaviour people have while under the influence of the poor man’s meth.
That could be mistaken for a typo.
Xeno-meph, would be what aliens are called if they did this too.
Extended warranty of your sinus cavity is a must.
And a mouth guard so you don’t churn away at the capricious calcium that are your teeth.
Smoke and dance till lungs and legs collapse.
Talk like you’re the spokesperson for an oil company that’s pillaging life and land.
Change your personality in a minute and become the douche you always wanted to be.
That smart talking, dick wagging, pussy licking, ass fucking, back stabbing, self serving, worthless piece of shit is now you, but it doesn’t feel like that to you.
Rational bullshit, your only reprieve.
Keep doing the same things over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again hoping the outcome will change.
But you’re cool.
You’ve done this before, it’s solvable.
A break. That’s all there’s to it.
The itch in your nose has stopped. Your jaw doesn’t hurt.
You don’t feel like shit, but you know somehow that something is amiss.
Things are not what they seem. Sense doesn’t make itself.
The dark is your sanctum. Fast is your peace.
That’s not a typo.
The world cannot slow down for you.
You have to speed up. Another gram, another line, another lie.
Control is what you say it is.
Handles are what your stomach has.
Fast forward a few months and you don’t have a handle on anything.
You don’t feel down, you feel fine. Nothing’s wrong
But just another fall, and you’re straight out of line.
Justify! Justify! Justify!
Listen, keep listening… Talk! keep talking!
Everything makes sense. Everything is a sense.
The difference is that I’m faster, quicker, sharper.
Leverage is my mind, broken and blind.
I wish that was a typo.
Once again this morning
You awoke inside my head.
And instead of welcoming you,
I ushered you out instead.
But by noon you had returned,
And again you said, "Good day!"
But I had so very much to do,
I, in haste, sent you away!
By eventide again you came,
"Good evening," was your greet.
And as I finally had the time,
I eagerly took a seat.
And so we talked just you and I,
Of imaginary hours,
That we'd one day spend together,
Under trees, amongst the flowers.
And write each others words,
Two souls, in truth be one,
But then before I knew it,
The day? Well... it was done.
So once again I said goodbye,
And laid down in empty bed,
Hoping dreams would hide that you,
Were only in my head.
your clean lips and serene eyes
they, with fearless precision
those neatly folded tufts of skin on either side
they, with unnatural ease
the epidermal pyramid sloping symmetrically
amid your instruments
is a songstress
she, with innate necessity
sings the song of life
your head is a concert
music to my troubled eyes
Her mind was surrounded by fire.
Her heart was enveloped in passion,
And her spirit was filled with desire,
But they said her soul was absent.
She spoke in rhymes and verses.
She lived with a song in her heart.
She absorbed all the daily curses.
She breathed them out in art.
Her head was engulfed in flames.
It was the way she was born,
But they filled her up with shame,
For the blaze she did adorn.
They thought her evil and strange,
Though her heart was simply pure.
They begged for her to change,
And asked if there was a cure.
There’s nothing wrong with this girl.
She is mind and heart a whole,
But there is embers in her curl,
And so they say she has no soul.
my hands bear bruises,
my shoulder holds a purple bump
from the metal bolt you threw in anger-
you missed my head
(as if it's not fucked up enough)
and told me i was wrong
all i ever did was love you,
you're supposed to be my hero
but the monster took hold of you
and drowned your veins,
at the age of seven, i was taught that i was lucky to be alive
i was taught that i did not deserve to be alive
Welcome to the age
when we are blessed
by wireless waves
by the electronic chemistry
of the computer,
all the little
which are everywhere,
so I wonder
what is this doing
to our brains?
so this is not a forest anymore
and it's no wonder
that we can't quieten our minds
no matter how we try
so why don't we just
learn to love
the new electromagnetic ocean
and float on our sea
of meaningless thoughts?