The one about the b*st*rd Muppet

* when I’m angry I like to think the pen is mightier than the sword, this is a revised stream of consciousness about the same person.*

What do you know?

What do you know about life?
Roaming in the streets with a bag of foam E coloured banana sweets, a flat cap to accompany your flat ale.

My mind can’t take the stairs to your psychopathic fuelled attic.

Try to know about life. I ask myself why.
Got plenty worries to wait on.

There’s nothing but your conditions dictating every one of our conversations.

I’m lost-feel dead. Rehearsing what to say is futile, when face to face, with your condescending glare.
Whispers-hard of hearing, harder to crytallize a picture of a time you were ever sweet.

I keep on overthinking.

I’ve had enough.

I’ve had enough.

Yet, I still bloody cared for I know not what.

For a sign of a heart that was ever moulded into a moment so fair.

Make my amendments with the one who is the true enemy.

I nearly fell for the bastardization of the one with a tumorous relation.

I‘m done over thinking.

I thought I was wrong, but then I look up and see it’s you on the side of the serpents infantile tongue.

What do you know ’bout anything but the base life?

African synthesisers — backdrop safari park- full of savage humans.
Ooh wee-what is this shit?

Every time we meet he wants to get an oo wee.

Haibo, voetsek! Hamba

I want you feel what I feel tonight.
Feel scared of this daughter of mama Africa.

Hamba.

My body will be dancing!

Feet stilettos connecting with your underbelly weak spots identified for a finale.

Macabre
Macabre-I don’t like your style at all.

Seen more compassion from wild monkeys beaten to perform.

What do you know about life?
I’m the one who is always so sorry-I’m leftSipping up more stupid flavours itty bitty who are you?

Ask yourself in a clean mirror -are you satisfied with what you see?

You speak about pain and suffering yet understand nothing about another’s fight.

I’m so strong-where did I get it so wrong?
I’m not sorry — you deserve a room date with perverts in sodomy.

What do you know about human emotion?

Here we go-

I’m done trying to figure out your distilled mind.
I’m lost
I’m scared

Damn right, you hurt me to my very core.
I forget how to breathe-only cos you disgust me with you brash audacity.

What do you know bout life?
I’m cross, I’m marred, I’m completely impaired.what do you know except shouting down opinions?

You so damn selfish and you could do something about it if you cared.

You look at me right now, you don’t ask how I am. Its all about you and your bruised ego.

You selfish bastard-you know nothing ’bout life.

Pained inflicted authentic words of describing the real you.

what the hell is wrong with you?

You are utterly a definition of disgrace.

You don’t know bout nothing.
You only care about your own suffering.

I never want to be so ignorant to other lives, eras and genres of people who have a clue.

Jungle vibes don’t mean you have to lose your chivalry.
you!

I don’t wanna walk like you or, talk like you.

What the hell did I see in helping you?

I feel the open wounds-, I see you take pleasure in openly mocking my new acquired pigmentation.

You know bout nothing -care only bout your own suffering.

Lying faces, sometimes don’t even pretend to be your friend.
Lying faces come in different suits.

Proof comes from not recognising their blatant, arrogant style is their truth.

Hear these tears-you can’t look!

Bass

turn it up.

Music files away the pain.

Raindrops cleanse away the ebony and ivory keys layered, over the bruises, of yesterday’s insults aimed at me.

I’m kind of feeling bad right now.

Peace maker?-you should come with a pacemaker warning label.

A pacifist?—not a clue -what’s the definition –the kook who can only mutter‘what -a muppet’-you don’t know this is serious!

You’ve got your addled mind with amnesia.

You rape your mother’s heart repeatedly.
Patterns transferred with a motion of akinesia.

Around you, every person could be convulsing in an epileptic seizure. you still wouldn’t know it. —

to afraid to part with 15-year-old love poems written to yourself in Rhodesia.

You speak of peace yet you make dividend equations, using your thoughtless cowardice utterances,

by mc-ing

disambigous

multiplications

as an excuse
for regressive aggression.

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