Open on Monday

What makes people get out at bed at 1,2,3,5 am
when the sky itself is just a sk- I too feel fine and
drink my coffee til i survive this 9 to 5
but why put on a smile
when i could be shouting about why – and how and when
and when will we finally come clear see clear-ly
just what and who and anyway the fuck are you
to judge my words to witness my joy
to ironically compare my ramblings to the shamblings this city
and your parents in their ruins and their gamblings and your gritty
fences and senses and incessant consequences spreading that jas like graffiti
how are we still shocked at the gridlock political cockroaches tictoced
mass murderers gorgeously picklocked and beauty execs frolock
sheep in wolfs in sheep in wolfs in
clothes so in sane peeps tweet freaks instead of talk,
blocks of crying over flying over pixels of cock
Infantile complexity in just how obnoxious this bull is
jerky so fine it completely removes the
chemical aftertaste of romantic roadblocks
cappuchino fuckboys dripped into condom heartblocks
udders bypass the flutters and fly fast to raindrops
and on top those big rocks one finds a big flock
of rooted over tea pots with no cuts
and a shit boombox that still punk rocks to the clocks
that won’t stop and can’t stop like sky rust
now hold up that paperclip
and admit all hope just ain’t lost
dockless ships still sink up through thick and thing love
rolling up shudders and flipping through scripts
all misfits consist of abundantly bliss.

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