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For-real poetry is no fun-etry

I spent months in confusion, utter bewilderment; sitting on the edge
The reversal of stoned contentment is deep seated terror, sometimes I’d fall over the corner and
Find myself sitting up again
Hope is for fucks, but yet all we’ve got left to do is hope
And eat apples that taste like machines made them
Oh god, the stoic hand of perverse nihilism
the mythical worlds of flesh-eaters, the dull narcissism for ’68,
Speaking pata-languages of the imaginary, spontaneously, drunk.
Splat! I’m done, out, through!
Clarified butter, Clarified butter
Clarified butter
So spaketh… so spake, uh
Goliath Jehosephat
tied to the ropy husk of the symbolic
the thick innavigable tangle of my aunt’s pubis
Oh, I’m just having fun, better get started writing for-real-poetry