This is not meant to be a poem...just my ideas spilling out...and unfortunately I am unable to organize them just yet. This is very misanthropic. (You have been warned)

Those garrulous and gawking gremlins are black, white, red, and yellow: a full palette of incompetence splashed to a canvass of kinetic—scintillating the sea of nothing—and the grotesque core is comprised of licentious rendezvous, and a picture of complaisant monotony that mars the self—no eloquence—grandiloquence, on the other hand, IS GORE. Gore and gore and more gore that spills serene from my heart and feeds that infamous line (the telegraph of sin) And off the homunculus goes... right after the gun shot…a silver pellet of rage flying in the wiry ambience…all of the little creepy crawlies spread, racing to and fro, beheaded as flocks of harried, erratic chickens and goats, dumber still, dripping their fluids in little gobbets on the barn floor. They will run and run until their bodies collapse...epileptically shivering to a stiff halt on a plate of silvery asphalt...A Baptist’s creaking cranium hanging from grape-vine chandeliers…linoleum threads, fractures, melting purple stained lips…etherized eyeballs bulging from terrified sockets like shriveled kumquats...Oh what a loss…whole universes having cracked their creamy shells… spilling sentient proteins that denature in the congenial heat…glimmering desperately like expensive lockets on the scalding concrete...a bright massacre on a sheet of dead brass…while a bullion sun suspends itself in a choking blue blanket, cooking my tiny frame...

It's that congregation of hortatory heathens that harries my hellacious mind, the hand of hatred that aggregates its fibrous root into my head...that stinging aperture...what a perfidious predicament that prods and punctures the wounds...It's my pathetic partiality, my empty soul...empty like a yolk-less egg...in a fragile casing...Will no one do a thing with the shell? Impartial...impotent...I am dysfunctional and direly so, it is just to conclude that my deficiencies add delectable delicacy to the devious decadence within which I indulge my deepest devotions. DEAD. It is stained...a Venusian devoid of her flowing tresses..naked and abashed. I am a glitch in the mainframe...an antipathic anomaly...an erupting red pustule on a pristinely complexioned face...I have no place to sob....nor to laugh...I am a vexating nuance...a black dot in your coffee...a green spot on your tooth...an antithesis...that deserves exculpation...unabashed and uncouth. I am the seive upon which you weave the truth of your ways, your frivolous contradictions, your aloof and your vacuous reproof...And what to do...Oh what to do to elude these things which scurrying about me like ants...These things that breathe and itch and achoo...Silhouettes terrify...The onyx outlines retch reason...and I sit here taciturn...wallowing in the stymie of lachrymosity...Incurable and indelible is the brutal murder of my sentimental soul.