The following content has been written for several reasons. The main one is just because I have a lot of random words floating in my head, and nonsensical poetry is just the thing to get them in order and dust them off. The second reason is because there’s this despicable person named Dick who really pissed me off by treating a lot of people badly, so I just turned my anger into some verses to make me feel better. The last reason is because I can write whatever I want to, so fuck you, Dick, and your brainless minions, too.
Poor dead soul
too many times you tried to
emerge from the cocoon of deception that
was wrapped in the web of lies and your
cries were heard
Your eyes were sure to tell tales
you wouldn’t dare but you’d already traded your eyes
to the devil and he gave you another set
in exchange for being his pet and
misleading as much of the masses as you could
So you said you would.
And every time one of your sheep would start bleating
about an ailment she had, or a crisis she lived
because of disorder, well,
you became Just What The Doctor Ordered
tugging at heartstrings
When she had a tumor – why, then so did you!
And when she had the blues, yours were worse…
they almost killed you!
And when her lungs wouldn’t work
Yours were already black
And when her mind wandered,
yours still hadn’t come back
And when she said she was dying,
You had already wiped your tears after
telling of your demise and crocodile crying.
And no one could be a detective and see
that your poor dead soul reeked of misdeed,
and no one questioned, they just placed their bets,
without even asking why you weren’t dead yet.
Many of us know now, and we can all see
how your dead soul can be as unkempt and filthy and
still fool so many who decree
that you’re pure, like snow
that you’re real, but we know.
The snow is yellow from your pissing about.
Your reality is jerking your sheep’s chains around.
You get off on pretending you’re a victim, my dear,
when the truth is you’ve victimized dozens, for years.
You bemoan how my voice is now dripping with acid.
You can’t understand why we no longer click.
Your tweets and your writing is incredibly flaccid,
You’ve become as soft as your ever-soft prick.
I know, I went there, no apologies given
because I’ve known you for years now; you were always
to dig for adoration, attention,
no matter who it hurt, and not to mention:
You ran off to France: fucked over a soul there.
You ran off to California: left people a mess there.
You ran off to New York: fucked a lady out of her money.
You proclaim your prose as fresh poisoned honey.
If there was a bullshit marathon, you’d win it, hands down.
All hail the king of shit, here’s your tin foil crown.
I’m tired of holding back, tired of the uncouth
methods of manipulation, so here it is, raw truth.
In truth you’re not a lion.
Stop insulting the species.
It’s not hard to spell it.
There’s a difference.
it’s the only help you’ll see from me.
I’m sick of your groupie, the one you confide to, lied to,
the one who does your dirty work, calling people
whores and cunts online, too.
I’m sick of her pretending to “not have beef with me” when
she’s obviously not finished fucking with people who
are friends with me,
Tra-la-la’ing her stupid toothy grin on social media
and torturing a sweet dying lady who, by the way, is
dear to me,
Don’t you see?
You’re old news, Dick.
You’re yesterday’s garbage, flapping and flailing on
the streets of London, gasping and wailing,
“LOOK AT ME, I WAS DYING BUT WAIT, NOW I’M AUTISTIC”
It stands to reason why your former fans
are now so pessimistic.
This is about all the time I have left to even spend on you.
I care more about all the people you’ve lied to.
I used to feel sorry for you, and even a little sad.
I feel more sorry for that little boy who never really had a dad,
because you’re fucking psycho, a narcissist, a liar,
along with your crazy little disciple, with all the diseases she’s learning about
from your idiotic route,
It’s a path of destruction, and you won’t ever quit.
And I pity the women who you plan to prey on, then shit on,
as is your modus operandi.
It’s difficult to decide which is worse:
the way you manipulate people
or the way you steal verse
from real writers, you hack,
Did you think I didn’t know that?
And every day, Our numbers grow.
Take note, Dick, Our numbers grow.
The only diseased part of you is your narcissistic brain.
More of us know, about her trips on that train,
More of us know, about how you’re insane.
And you think I end this with a plan to implore you?
To beg you to stop? To try to destroy you?
Have another think.
The goal is
watching the world