The Night of The Long Knives
played out under a grimy 40 watt bulb sky
on this pissing cold spring day.
The low-self is in the house, people.
I can see it
coming through the computer monitor
leaking through the receiver
of the fucking phone
into my squealing ears.
Leaning in over the walls
of this baby vomit colored cubicle.
Everybody's killing everybody
with swinging accusations
blunt force panic
and heroic futility.
I know I know I know
You can't afford to lose this gig.
Believe me, I know.
So, shall we engage
in a little self mortification?
Let's show them how much
they mean to us
and live here like Anchorites
in workaday ecstasy
day and night
perched like business casual
stylites
on this three story
stick up my ass.
Days like this
really get on my tit.
Almost start to snarl
almost start to snap
but there's no point
no one in this world knows what they do.
Build an elevator through the sky.
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