Q3

An ode to Ginsberg and the Beat Generation. Behold, my love letter to the more unfortunate facets of the human condition. I swear it office-101has nothing to do with my current internship because I LOVE MY INTERNSHIP SO MUCH [please save me from them]. The poem is a bit campy, sure, but I’m happy with how it came out (for now). Chances are good that in a few months I’ll want to tear it apart. But for now, enjoy!

Q3

Who am I fooling?
And he decided not to wipe the dust off his desktop.
The grey dust caked up on his desktop like the makeup
of some intern destined to face fuck a keyboard for the rest of her life.
Stuck in his Tarantino tuxedo slamming keyboard keys like Billy Joel
On a fucking Saturday night,
only he was the one getting stoned at
that desk reminded him of a dog crate with
wires woven through the chain-link
strapping his ankles to the carpet
and his wrists to the armrests like
cuffs and fetters
but what was I doing?

He had to read a well written article about nothing,
So he ate the words like cheerios and threaded them together
one by one onto a tight twine necklace and
turned his face upward and dropped his jaw,
pinching the thread between his thumb and forefinger,
Raising his hand…
And he slid that chain-link down his gullet.
Yanking that string and shattering those words against the walls of
his esophagus in an an empty fit of rage and
those words crumbled and fell into a pit of acid to be
digested with the rest of the shit he read that day.

And he had to write a final report about it.
He had to summarize it.
So he threw up lexical bile onto a piece of paper and
slapped it with his open palm so it made a nice
splat splat splat
Then he scanned it onto that grey desktop so that it was
filtered and clean and black and white and
ready to present.

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