How the F*ck

This chip on my shoulder is growing bolder, catching on the flimsiest grievances. 

Fear measured on a scale of bejeezuses, malfeasances don’t hold my sixty second attention span like they used to, unless they’re intravenous. 

The newspapers gaslight,
politicians rationalize our mistrust, like I don’t know 

HTF living 
in the red can be. 

This attitude problem is a philosophical option I choose to exercise with glee. 

Authority often isn’t earned but arbitrarily given, and continuously gifted with its presence, I’m smitten with smiting it, awaiting its indictment in a gladiator ring. 

But the conspiracy theorist streak went and made a career of kissing ass, put on a shirt and tie one morning and decided not to wear the sass, before the symbiosis of starvation reached a critical mass.

And I might die of madness before material bliss 

yet don’t live for the power trip like some.

I live for love notes wrapped around a brick and thrown through your windows, 

gumming up the worksmanship of 
blue-collar wear and tear.

6 thoughts on “How the F*ck

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