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Click heresaint, martyr, raging fallopian
death whore
constructor of scaffolds
the stage, from which
you address the world
lips like leaches, sucker of
blood, oxygen thief
spitting your tantrum poems
through your death mask
grin, look at me! look at me!
how dead I am
how clever you are
manipulating
your grotesque mannequin
from your cold hole
slavishly dependent, scorned lover
betrayed wife, deserted mother
hideously manic
your confessionals
accusations set free
into the world
to breed like rats
was death you're curse
on him, your clenched fist
forever frozen
on his dark heart
your final act, a death mark
on their affair, or are you
dead dead dead
your bones juggled up
by a cult of witches
OMG, a comment from cult central. Back to poetry, if some of this wasn't so damn good, I would accuse you of hyperbole. Well it does come close.
how clever you are
manipulating
your grotesque mannequin
from your cold hole
A 5
See bflagssssst, these are the kinds of sounds you can get, by not
trying to write like Vaseline on glass.
actually bog, here you are beginning to sound like her
grin, look at me! look at me!
how dead I am
wrote prose and poetry, but she didn't write prose-poetry, or just string together a bunch of Spam tags and stale images and call it a poem. 3/5