[enter the void here]

i did not raise you, you have no place in my womb

though you reach for it, thrusting yourself closer

holding back tears like a little bitch

WOULD IT HELP IF I SANG YOU A LULLABY, SISSY BOY?

i keep riding you, pulling my own hair to remind myself I'm still alive,

and i moaned at your lobe for three weeks, waiting for an alert  alarm sound

[[]]
it's paSSST midnight so i'll switched to the unplugged record
turn it down real low and rub one out about, but not limited to,

that time the bookstore on the ave shut down, and how hard it made you when i cried,
 three gallons of salty, sappy, eye piss due to the lack of people READING anymore, 

thank god i am a writer, everything i say stays a secret

                                                           [hahahahaha]

[enter the side door in the hallway of the second void here]

spoken without being spoken, I see it all, this thing, that thing, 

those things that bounce of that thing and go ting, ting, ting, 

one fire breath melting skin, and sand, forming glass, 

forming windows that look onto NO-thing. 

And this is the age we live in, execute our limbs for minimum wage, 

choosing a different way than the corporation so we can stay “green”, 

and create “green” in a way that is “green” , 

occupy renewable resources outsourced inside sustainably, collectively in solidarity

against

them

who are against us pre-teen “green” fiends

We stand still while the upper-class BITES the HANDS that FEED them.