The cheering crowds,
my Mussolini grin--
the verdict is in:
guilty as charged.
Some dude's big O
is the gaping hole
in my brain --
in pour large
plastic bags of sin,
black and pungent as shit.
I am filled with bullets --
traumatic intercourse,
Fed and bred like a Folsom
piggy. I smile sweet
as any pink pansy,
a game laugh in the wings.
The psychic dumptruck
driven by stoners, sits idling
as I spring from a compost pile
and sing a song of love.
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