Only injustice could have brought forth prose -- romance hasn't ever been enough. Of the many things the world has taken into its comfortable stride, one stubborn reason remains injustice. It is alarming how steep the rates of injustice met out to the deserving are, and even more alarming, how quietly we are accustomed to take it soulfully and silently in. Like injustice were nothing more than a really steaming cup of tea.
It has been my fault, and mine completely, that I have accepted everything with detachment and disinterest. And I have not even spoken of revolt. The mere accepting nature, is as disbelieving as disbelief of the injustice itself. I live in a world where it is criminal to be slightly intelligent, or be intellectually intelligent. The world takes in like a quicksand the fervor of talent. And it celebrates the intelligence of oil-applying, hen-pecked, headless, insensitive morons, who have never known a mother from a mother-fucker.
Yes, you have rightly understood my anger. It is handpicked and exquisite. I could scream, and burn down a building and I could compete with the summer sun in doing it. The life of the moneyed are so beautifully carpeted with the asses of those headless pricks that I am in hollow tears about what this once beautiful world has expanded to.
The problem is in plenty -- I do not have it in my broken back to act. Like most intellectual poorists, I too talk. In my case, write. And yes, this is the reason I have no books to my name -- an ode to the dumbfucks who do not have it in them to understand a pun. They who desperately scratch their heads looking for the joke. And no severity in my life could become greater than this injustice -- that my fate lies in their buying power.
Calling out to all those who spell "Mam," look within for the joke.
It has been my fault, and mine completely, that I have accepted everything with detachment and disinterest. And I have not even spoken of revolt. The mere accepting nature, is as disbelieving as disbelief of the injustice itself. I live in a world where it is criminal to be slightly intelligent, or be intellectually intelligent. The world takes in like a quicksand the fervor of talent. And it celebrates the intelligence of oil-applying, hen-pecked, headless, insensitive morons, who have never known a mother from a mother-fucker.
Yes, you have rightly understood my anger. It is handpicked and exquisite. I could scream, and burn down a building and I could compete with the summer sun in doing it. The life of the moneyed are so beautifully carpeted with the asses of those headless pricks that I am in hollow tears about what this once beautiful world has expanded to.
The problem is in plenty -- I do not have it in my broken back to act. Like most intellectual poorists, I too talk. In my case, write. And yes, this is the reason I have no books to my name -- an ode to the dumbfucks who do not have it in them to understand a pun. They who desperately scratch their heads looking for the joke. And no severity in my life could become greater than this injustice -- that my fate lies in their buying power.
Calling out to all those who spell "Mam," look within for the joke.
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