Propaganda expands,
proportional to the reform
that takes place
the inner space
in which I look out
no doubt
I need you like a dog in heat
a bleak peak at American life.
Picasso,
Casanova
dreaming of industrialized
dead
weight
flies
rising in the curdling milk of success.
Sex is best.
A festering wound on society,
my Ass!
Who would have known I was really a goddamn Celebrity
bred to be a Hollywood star?
I'd steal the Millennium Falcon,
and fly to Mars,
I'd look Death in the eye,
give him the finger
and ask why?
Now that's what I call success.
Reason for writing:
A poem that doesn't have too much meaning, but I wrote
mainly to play with the sounds of words.
Birth sign: Leo
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Hiro Protagonist.