Drink wine and publicize the verses, please,
says Desperado. Hell, you ain't some kind
American. In fact, we're second-guessing
if meter's been abandoned. Here's a beat--
now carve a god. You'll need your own Osiris,
three-story smokestacks (phony), lines of meth,
never stressing, then stressing, then a turn
to a chatroom close to you. The lols enjoy
blown unknowns, maybe hazy quarries, lots
themselves, rich until the bill comes due. Lost, he's
not dead, but first among the other sirs:
a sample blueberry epistemology
from holy pistols. Then he rides the dead
through dust and knacks-knicks. On my desk, he picks.
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