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?

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The Gala Crash

written by Work Martyr

Cinch the waif closed although she will blush a violet 
Print on caged ribs in plumages painted with lacquer
Eyes which reflect brighter from borrowed light of sequins
Sewed to distorted figures by scores of her lessers’
Finger bones and you’ll boast of labor’s cost at altars 
Of velvet artists whose worth is worth less than the tag 
Or boxes that conceal sweated beads with jeweled tones
And blood-harvested but fractured stones that were designed
As a glamour gowned but stitched idols are simple tricks
Or traps like how feathers glued over cracks might subdue
Consumers from smashing their branded fetters together