I thought I had heard my cigarette scream for help.
I would too if I was burning slowly toward Hell.
Reel in desperation for kicks, even though I'm stuck in staccato.
They say my circuits are pears, but they're really avocados.
My world connections collect great, eccentric confidence.
So let me wire the tides to flow forth and annex the continents.
I expect to die this evening, preferably in the golden hour.
When the sun melts hearts, I'll be the snowman holding ours.
I'm a slut for torque, an identity crisis ends in a tug of war.
Alarm clock snore reward, then I take lunch at four.
Mass consumptions of hallucinogens have consumed me.
My beauty is loosely based on my cruelty and my groovy
sense of '60s era ruby glow in my step. I make the crowd undress.
Sue me. Unless my duty here on Earth involves an Uzi, then I digress.
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