poem #2

A depressive writes about the future,  everyone laughs at it.

These ten lips and ten mouths.  Count how many tongues cash gold.  Pull one

swallow the whole framework’s hole. My heart would surely break if I

were not impaled by the ongoing urge to gut it out fist first.

Gorgeous breasts sway a brain or two.  It is disgusting, release me sow,

graduate with charisma. The real drive is getting it just right,

straying from one sext to the next sext. What I mean is

either way I lose.  How long is now? What I mean is,  sad sex.

Close both buttons on your back, honey.  While in establishment, shut up.

By the authority infected in me, I pronounce it, 

perfectly alive. What is mine is not yours unless you take it.