Monday, July 2, 2012

Poetry Don't Work On Whores

She throws herself at pedestrians
Because that's what society dictates
An offering to the celluloid gods
Orange coated in their worthless majesty
A dry hole in her body creates a vacuum
That engulfs everything she touches
It could set the polar ice caps on fire
Uncover Atlantis as a barren desert
I feel blessed that she walked past me
As if I dodged a bullet coated in disease

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