To sound cool in theory to dare to ketchup to the three year olds
who program their phones. Oh I’m very sure, the lovely creatures
of know and gadgets learned how to press a button in utero…moms
always dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, kids of mom’s learn how to press buttons of the asshole they share a cell with in San Quentin
then mothers that dreamed: The show begins. Bring peanuts. Bring popcorn with white cheese powder sprinkled ever so lightly on it.
I’m sorry Mrs. so and so, where is his father? Muertafied. Comprende.
Lo siento. The beat down, smack down, the jaw banger, the skull crusher, the spine splitter,the meant for wife beater, the I hate me beater, the killer in you brings forth the killer in me moment,
shabaaaam. now the mothers that dreamed wail with widdle satisfaction. poor prunes never preserved their good names.
So many boys learn how to press the wrong buttons; end up at the wrong end of a shot gun because of the domestic buttons now called compulsions that he begins with good intentions, a smack on the hand and then he can’t stop cause it turns him on to see her blood run quicker than the Mississippi River.
One boy might have to push the Royal button. The button that blows the world to shit. A notice should hang for the lifers in prison or the deathrow inmates. Why is it muy facile to push the theological and philosophical conundrums onto those that we vote out of existence? AS IF….?