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Humiliation
Simmers.
Humilation simmers on the
back of the stove,
like teenage virgin
lovers in the coconut grove.
Repressed I have a
purpose- like a basket of warm eggs,
like Cheech &
Chong in Reno with newly shaven legs.
After absences of
malice and cold fronts of bliss,
I've wrapped myself
in moist towel-ettes awaiting your kiss.
The things you did
once irked me, so often they besmirched me
though my eyes we're
crusted over- hypnotized by hurdy-gurdy.
Those lips are
mighty perty
And though my dorsal
fin--- vestigial and strange,
renders me
inhuman--unfit to roam the
plane.
He ain't not have
called me "fat girl,"
thus I smote his
sacred cow.
It was child-ish yes
I will admit, but I'm over all that now.
By the glass bowl
full of faces that I keep by the door,
she poked me in the
eye, cuz I'm sometimes a whore.
Feeling pensive,
staying home-- all alone in the dark,
I judge myself
unworthy--at the cars I do bark.
Surprised by my
actions I check my self in
at McLean's down the
street cuz I'm looking pretty thin.
Out of maggots,
pissing steam, skating on the thin ice,
my glutton fried
mushball turned out to be lice.
I told you once,
don't make me say twice.
Arthur C. Clarke
controls our every thought--
He's been programmed
by the government to teach us what we're taught.
I know my dorsal
fin--- vestigial and strange renders me
in-human--
but I sware I'm not
insane.
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