/lit/ - Literature

Metamorphoses you daft cunt

Brawl (#1)

I saw the greatest hivemind of my generation destroyed by Summerkids,
striving hysterical for troves of Stirner sketches,
dragging themselves through the wet black bukaki at wake typing
for a botched critique,
priapic knuckleheads choreographing for the handful bohemian
network by maudlin belles-lettres in a collectively anarchic newtopia,
who underemployment and saccharine cocoa and pretty-miss-wander-eyes and avant-garde vaporizer pen designs
in recurrent existential paralyses and worthless seconds reimbursed
under the advertisement bar in empty ventilation,
who tapped their motherboards to the primary centralis under the Lel and found
shoddy Canon imitators trawling from the Übermenscher decks
inseminating false Dogma,
who leafed Murakami in a chrome-boring Boxtype with pretzel-toposes underhoods
quantum possessed coolant trickling like piss under a star-spangled diaper
limping off sporadically by a Viagra-suspended member over the hung gearpanel,
who quote you unquote us were handcuffed by the moribund dozens to a shitpost radiator
for dismantling superimposed myths of Heidegger’s Naziism on campus in equally
vainglorious episodes of extrospective humiliation,
who from built up self-repudiation unironically slit their wrists naked until they dress
in loud red to a ballad of Mainländer snippets in a solitary bathtub,
who passed tryptamine out like your sweetheart’s plastic smiles on a forgotten moon
or was she cast phosphorescence off that awfully familiar convex screen
we carelessly remove prepackaged slender nuggets’ protective seals to and dip ourselves
like the veritable pigs we morph back to snoutdeep into the trough, guiltily pleasuring crave,
who crawls underground from fear of the living and boars into the sheriff's lounge
ostensible his talent as his crowd’s met disgusted countenance
lone sensible in a badland of desperadoes horseback riding away from sunset to the gallows
who traverses by the verses fleetingly
making the loose eccentric excellent in his dance wherever category he mistakenly barged
to himself a resplendent quetzal lying his way out of the beast in the mirror,
a poindexter easily enamoured and an unrelenting shell under the common sun,
who snuggles with their delusions of grandeur by the kindled fireplace with nobody in sight
and declare as any other night their bitter snickerdoodleless holiday then silently sob,
who is a gypsy, self-employed at milk neutral hotel, toiling,
who is a bedbug, under your pillow reciting how kafkaesque, cowering,
who is a changeling, adept in homeschooled lessons on elements of style, unforgiving,
lending like a beggar’s metal cup his how do you miserably do’s and have a despicable day’s
mensis horribilis, annus horribilis
and the Moirai snicker injudiciously over the courtroom and tune his fate to Vivaldi,...

Every book that was ever written is an allusion to something in Ovid's Metamorphosis or something in the Bible. Prove me wrong /lit/,

prove

me

wrong