I haven't wings on my head
or the horns of the devil
I've read books about the twelve
tasted the hemlock of rejection
and ridden once on a white horse
nearly resulting in my own
trampling
Boring to the ladies, apparently.
All experiences turn insipid
with the passage of time
Lately one thing alone
reassures my own existence
upon this sphere:
Listening to Rob Zombie
whilst weightlifting.
Muscles and beats are the pump. My mind the siphon.
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