Automatic Writings From the Back of a Paystub

I do ache for a societal consensus of the good
a very good continental philosopher
in the manner of a madman, daft and pained as Nietszche
Hitlerian ubermensch of the sixth mass extinction event.

Something in me always succumbing to Poe’s Law:
red lips ringed in red lipstick,
wanting to be the thing I find hilarious.

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Absolute manifestation of spaghetti;
denim shorts terminating beyond the knees.

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Never knowing how to be a séance unto myself.

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Blown-speakers of teenage personhood;
a shriek of despair behind the steering column
and the leftovers secreted in the glove compartment.

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Sometimes they build rosaries like this:
six or seven death threats against myself in an hour.

I had forgotten that non-smokers are invincible.

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You there, in the wild blue push-up bra,
you have heteronormalized me inexplicably,
the way a cat fills a room with people.

Not so much through fault but by occasion.

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In the mad quest for sense you have made the dumb eloquent.
Yes, the ceiling is not responsible for holding us,
but what are ceilings if not irresponsible?

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Left stranded on the desert island of desire,
everything grows green with envy – tropical palms, the coconut a kind of fruit.