I’m so in love with my own bullshit
that I look past death just to imagine
how the people in my life would react
to the absence of my existence.

This sad clown wears
an electric halo every time
his synapses snap.
He easily laughs while tears
100 yard dash down the hills of his cheeks.

He whitens his blackface
with the powder he stole from a chick
who fucked his heart, but not his dick.

She loved to sleep in his arms,
but refused to give him a kiss-
like, picture your staggering genius
using your brain for a penis.

He smiles at the hidden cameras
dressed in his pregnant poke-a-dot
outfit with a shit stain where the crack is.

He’s a white supremacist rapper
a virgin prostitute
a fat man that’s never eaten food
an illiterate poet
a sober alcoholic who likes to hug toilets.

He puts a gun in his mouth
but when he pulls the trigger
and hears the click, a marching band
rumbles down the barrel clouded in confetti
shaped like a bullet.

He slithers through the valley maze
glazed with little boxes and buildings
and into bartended-playgrounds
just to play double dutch
in the hallow fangs of a nasty girl’s
drunken cobra clutch.
She’s a seven headed dragon
with 14 tits and a single pussy
that fucks submarines for dildos,
as if the distance between what goes on in my head
and what goes on outside of it
is as close
as Al-Qaeda is to Islam
depending on where you get your information from…
Blackwater picking niggas off in they cars
driving through traffic
while I’m a puppet pleading to his master,
“You can cut the strings I’ll take my chances.”

A Farmer Jones Production