Between my precocious impromptus,
Improper prioritizations,
Pretentious farces and a smoke mirrored intuition -
Lies your mournful recognition of your blithe yet crass self

I am not unaware that I am unaware,
Still, I am awake and sure that I am -
Ready for the war-mongering intelligentsia’s designs,
Wicked! Cruel, and without a sense of humor or humility

Their stupidity travels sans an entourage of witnesses,
People scavenge off of their carcasses and the illusion thereof,
Epiphytical tendencies are evident in the blatant show-off -
Of the televised fingerprints over their glass brain

But it’s fickle and in the hopes to crack it -
The pretentious witchdoctor chants his mantras,
Perhaps to rid them of their ghosts -
Perhaps to scare his own phantoms away

Momentarily then, the music dies - only to emerge
With remigial vertices attached to angular chords,
Coercing me to shed my narcotic baggage,
Letting the mathematics of my expectations dwindle into chaos

That’s all there is to it then,
Murdering the ego isn’t recommended for the faint, or quaint,
All shrink-wrapped promulgations are incomplete,
As are all self-obsessed archaic dementias.

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