Pens and Pencils
I am at mercy of your blotting skills,
I play you in every major chord refuting that mere people can slay the images you have inked and leaded; what printed thrills!
I expedite the art of Confucious to confuse “us” with tactical menopause causing word strings and three-dimensional shade fills.
Am I not a mother-fucking ARTIST!??!??!
I illustrate spaces with the point of my eraser and I bend reality with the ball of my Bic tip.
As fruitful for multiplication as the ____tip, I breed thoughts onto naive and gullible minds laying lifeless strapped to my blog’s mattress sick with…
My verbal sperm like infestations floating around inside, expanding like mitosis within there organelle sized cells’ cerebellums.
Infecting their probe pods something viral!
My schematics and blueprints were sketched and etched in notebooks and spirals,
Concoction of algebraic formulas dressed in Braille to secret the messages delivered to your spinals’ vitals.
I am artiste, and at least, I have the common decency to inform you that I am ploying your minds, misguiding your pupils and curbing the finals.
No. 2 or Papermate?
I achieve the same literary greatness crafting archipelagos out of toxic writing fluids and the famed canned poison man outfitted commonly in tan.
Pens and Pencils….
My soul’s extensions.