dashing serpents - #5

dashing serpents - #5

This is a poem about a family and ideology I’m so over.

Can you hear that sound of the cameras click, clicking, in tune with our lives tick ticking away. In tune with our lives tick ticking away.
Click, click.
I want to be with a woman who directly reflects who I am. A woman who mirrors the women in my family I look up to. The only women I have known who have bullied and stomped on me. The only women I know have digested handfuls of my umbilical cord, my non-existent spine, personality and soul. Unfortunately these women are not dynamic women, they are barely women at all, void of character, moral compasses, vales and divine education based inspiration.
They are just like me. They are just like me.
Click, click.
Physically they embody, shadows of hollow, juicy, inviting Vargas girls, with no literal or figurative room for growth. Blackened eyes these talentless, culture vultures, nasty fucking succubus suck up dollar signs, dicks, your precious attention, your valuable time. Unable to remember the last time they, we did something nice, a genuine good deed or read a significant book, with the camera off. They are just like me. WE are photogenic, demonic sirens with a lust for magic. With the sleight of our hands you want to be us. With the sleight of our hands you want to be us.
Click, click.
I sought a potential salacious mate, she is just like me, just like my kin, that same multiplied brash disgusting force. She sucks me as I suck her. Siamese algae eaters smear audibly eating trails of waste on your camera glass. She’s vacant and lovely. I need her. She needs me. She’s a gag, a trick, who tricked me, as I tricked her. Damage done, I lift up the veil of trashy cloth my folk germinate from. How is anyone surprised? She is just like me. I am just like them. We make gorgeous children. Don’t we? Don’t we?
Click, click.
Don’t judge me, I am your sad wayward son, not knowing that I stand as a man, with a lack of testosterone in my home, I fell for anything. I fell for a rich lowlife, like myself. An integrity failure. I am sickened by what I am and what I have become. A curvaceous snake, eating itself. Unable to control the primitive instinct of choking on my sagging girth, my rattling stump tickles stump  my throat, I retch, I can’t stop. I’m sorry.  I can’t stop. Full to the brim, I make room for one more bite. Like and subscribe to this buffet of our talentless vessels of idiotic eye-candy. Repost this vomit shmargidboard of fine, young cannibals ready for more wealth, followers and close ups. We can’t stop. We can’t stop.
Click, click.
I’m hungry and lonely and lovely in no particular order.
Can you taste my despair.
Can you taste my despair.
Click. Click.
So um...where the hoes at?  So..um...where the hoes at?