Fucked Up Fiction

written by Work Martyr

We’re just a bunch of monkeys 
Chilling with a concrete sex appeal
Leaning on a trunk, and hanging on the steel
Hooligans hold the minds key 
Isn’t that what all that fucked up fiction says?
Isn’t that why you took this animal into your bed?
Was it something else entirely?
A practical reason?
Lonely slept, attic kept 
We were in our 100th season?

Like all things unclear I digress 
Hunger and beasts the scene has always been set
There’s a limit to the things working men can get
Life’s a daily service of process 
The comfortable masses all but name us criminal
Like anything about our struggle is subliminal 
Which problems to address?
The monied are a gang!
But mob rules, duh fool 
For love; sturm und drang! 

I’ll do my best to draw a point 
The faithless draw nearer to unadulterated truth 
Godless, red there are no kings among the youth
But who should we anoint?
I’ve wept at the sight of the feet of our bridges
I’m a martyr among the country crumbling vicious Let’s kill the rich and disjoint
Marry my old spirit
Elope, antipope 
This demon is fearless 

I don’t ever know what I mean 
You’d have to be stupid not to see the regression
Working poor, forevermore child of the recession
What can I do to be clean?
My rot wafts, putrid in everything but flesh 
I’m not and never been sorry I must confess
Born to at worst dirty the machine
I always go willingly 
Body and gears, volunteers?
Time to change things physically

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