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Beatnik Bugmen

And  
the rest of us measure time’s  
tentative  
tick in workweeks.  
Minutes, hours, long–  
months,
years  
short.  
 
 
Dry up palms coated with caked old grease  
as the  
righteously  
fucked file down  
easy street to  
Rip the  
nails off the coke fiends and  
Break the  
thumbs of the bassists and  
Deck those singers in their throats.  
The kids are annoying;  
swat their ice cream cones.  
Shirt-cock it to your dad’s funeral  
Piss in the fountain at the Louvre—  
(so much for victory in the halls power built).
Written by Alois_inwriting02 (Alois Cyprien d Bayeux)
Published | Edited 19th Jun 2024
Author's Note
Something of a character poem, I suppose.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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