the death of script

I can't go kicking this rusty blade no further
we can all name ourselves smurves
when the terrors of modernity seem quaint
plash of water
monumental tree trail
tripple faggot
only god xemself
short buff gay
agog in 8 ft waves
of totally tubular efflorescence
remembers those empassioned tweets
on the theme of cursive handwriting

[WAR MESSAGE!] we dont want yr tools

(for CAConrad on the escalation of troops)

look gentlepeople
the only source of likelihood
is a fist in a gentle orifice
if I’da been a ranch
they’da calld me bar none
a fecund desert
full of heartless so-and-sos
the tub of butter thereafter was rancid
we put xir and xir mouth ta rest
along with the chickens in our maw
hey blood, hey sucka
as like to one as to th’other
do you love your sibling
as they do as they do