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The Local Pharisees
there is nothing they can do for you, to you, and deep down they know it. they know it, they know it, they know it: fairness is measured by Being; they are tools in something bigger; they are fly dung unless, quite arbitrarily, they are made something glorious. it is all beyond their control. they know this and will not, will not, just will not have it. they will leave the room if you accept it. you will be squeezed if you admit it. the weight of their overfed asses will be brought to bear. it will be hard to find parking. each gesture, each word, the way they position their bodies: we don’t like you, you’re alien, why don’t you leave, or die. then they will talk about how much they love you, and with you sitting there listening. others have been burned, beheaded, quartered, martyred. it bothers them now this is the most they can do. they wish they were Federal Pharisees. they will read this poem and think I’m writing of them. the motherfuckers. yea, motherfuckers, this poem is for you. this is graffiti on your whited sepulchers, motherfuckers, from the God of Luv. you see, after all, He really does want to kill you.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2013-11-06 06:45:06
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
MSS I'm the worst of friends, the worst of readers. This is the first of yours I've read since...well, since last time :-) But I'm reading it thinking "I don't know who this is specifically about, but if MSS is cussin' their overfed asses, I am too." I just killed a mosquito. Bully for me :-) MAH
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