poem

Ah the day you passed out in my bath,
mainlining on cavorite as fields of CGI deer gently lapped up your dayglo blood.
I understand, and by understand I mean love. Beached and watching jackal films on fried rice, you think you hear her walk past your window when 5 billion things that you disagree with come suddenly marching out of the hideous clarity while at every shore skull faced mermaids try to sell you real estate.
You sign up to write essays for plagiarists but find both that someone else has plagiarised your essay and that your essay was in the first place plagiarised from a paper originally published in 1924 by Squid Lizard, the nation’s favourite only Squid Lizard to come with a freelance alienation dinner, or similar.
Where are you going, twenty-seven year old man? You accumulate books like a hotel room yet still twitch and are incapable of love. Now behold as I save this document in three places simultaneously.
We don’t dance, we shoot people yeah? They found you, in a coat of nails listening to guitars with yr hair tied back. That time you thought you heard crying yes it was me. Go to bed without brushing your teeth, later when they drop out it will be a gift from yr past self. Spend not these nights cursing your earthly works.
You are making a terrible mistake. The only modern ism is everythingism. The only modern CGI is Squid Lizard.