in the blank autistic throes of whatever. they have software to write our copy now where are the fucking people
you industrious little fuckheads. making t-shirts making poetry t-shirts on the internet. t-shirts don't feel anything they're t-shirts. why doesn't your poetry feel anything
with the advent of the camera in the mid-1800s
painting lost its major function as visual document
because the camera's accuracy could exceed
that of the most technical artist's hand
and now we use fucking smiley faces for no smiling.
you know life is really fucking cruel but the sounds that swat at my teeth from an amp in the dark and the lowest key on a piano and slow air on long walks and the skin of the boy who kisses me being different from the skin of leaves, these things.
i have maybe five years left to be alive. i would eat this floor to feel the layers of people i would eat a lot of things i cannot even tell you how much there is
please stop making t-shirts
it's completely fucking brilliant out there.