bring it on

In a shooting range i'm aiming at the iconoclasts of the silver screen,
as i'm marching forward into the darkness of cinema - our retarded queen,
laughing through its black teeth it
spits out (in a self-righteous style) our as-seen-on-tv maturity,
or perhaps our disgust for the same.

the suffocating zeitgeist's syllepsis should commit suicide in the script itself,
but the
butchery called the
box office can't be
bothered for the
benefits of a few
bastards have evolved into their
birthrights.

i still wants the buffs to bring it on.