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it's okay to eat women 'cause they don't have any feelings.
this is shit. past mourning the corpse pulled from his wrist. four hundred days malaise craving apathetic bliss. now the rumor mill's working like the facts aren't laughable. he's either agoraphobic or a fasting cannibal. half-clad in hubris' half-truths but mostly over it. built this throne of bones and shit to burn until she notices. the hole of his logical solders broken ribs for lovers to watch the smiles widen like a shark's trailing a cutter. and couplets are knuckle dusters when a vice is avoided 'cause a face full of blow makes the brain much too buoyant. disappointment had a name and a language 'til tax claimed them. today it walks the city spouting pull-string catch phrases. like, "pour me another before the lapses replay." and "my mother's praying hands are just another cliché." so he's walking 'round bullets claiming near death keepsakes 'cause exit wounds bloom faster than cancer can keep pace with shit.
last mourning for this corpse of a rib. so he python jaws liliths to see which one'll fit again. wrong myth. wrong miss. never liked her. he's either a bad muse or he should fuck better writers. or settle for bedding biters. best excuse for why he slept late. no sweat. check his demeanor's just as shallow as his chest plate. headaches like black funerals. so flashy, grand and glutton. and it's laugh track suitable how his form fancies function. for peers pulling punch-ins, the kitschiest struggle was how to jazz june cooler when blackface turned subtle. and chitterling circuit uncles claimed stars like southern crosses to spawn agnostic genres like rakim and daniel johnston. caution. this is music for men raised to be widowers. clocks tick inconsistent to count the minutes of missing her. in third person, burning a church full of listeners. shit isn't hers. it's work to stretch the purse of a minute's worth.