Fuck what you heard, it's what you're hearing.

He was


for the perfect imagery.

But it'd all been seen before.

All the rhetoric,

metaphor, allegory.

Carefully carved precise

with the tips of tongues.

And what shape would this

song take?

Or would it be left


like mist

with no bounds?

A Picasso blob

meant to trickle into the depths

of your imagination

and tickle the ivory

causing chords to rumble

in the pit of your stomach

as orgasmic reverence

pours out your mouth.

But no matter which way you spin it

it's all been done before

to the point

where penning it takes a backseat

the minute you recognize

the beat.

And thump.



there it goes,

as your trunk rattles

with deja-vu.

I think

it's over.


we've reached

the limit to our exposure.

and the only muse left

is anti-muse

and already

it's being abused and misused

for retelling.


to go on,


you fuck what you heard

and so on...

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