Tiny spider hands
tingling all over my body,
one, two, three thousand
of them,
fast and hard,
like last night’s kiss…
I kissed a whore.

There’s acid in my
stomach , I call it
post-modern nihilism,
post-modern pluralism,
dualism, egocentrism,
and all the isms that I may

Parfait excuse for shoving
my fingers down my throat
and looking like an intellectual
who actually gives a damn
to the world, and thinks of
metaphors worth sharing.

I vomit at any given alley,
on any given day, it’s
all a given something
through blurry and teary eyes
there’s the salvation to
in a capsule
named whatever:


I do it in the pitch dark and all my isms are back.



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