Fleeting

 Fleeting

Why do I get my best ideas when

I take a shit?

Or, wake up sweating from my drunk dreams?

All of a sudden, when the pressure is off

I see the world through my own truth.

I then rush to write it down. But it's

All gone

DRY...

This used to happen to Chopin

He would go for walks with George

And have beautiful shit run through his mind

Fleeting into oblivion as he raced to the

Piano

So he could write it down

When he couldn't remember, he'd break pencils,

Run around swearing...

It's the temporality of that magic

Here, then gone

That stays in the hearts and minds of men

All we try to do is

Correct the misdeeds of a cruel, inhospitable world

So that we can live free of putting our dicks and pussies in vice

grips

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