Foucault would smile to see the capitalist's brains strewn about a white canvass and think,
"maybe he's not so myopic after all."
And we've all thought of killing, once... or twice.
Gritting, hard, teeth clenched, tightening the cord-
An intimate, phallic dance with life
(The Aztecs didn't think subjugation, they thought pay homage to the Gods with blood)
But now I wish you'd blow my brains with your cigarette smoke.
Let the blue stars light up a white, night sky
and all the smoke
and all the smoke
Be blown like kisses.
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