Fake

You're all fake. Everything you say and do is fake. Everything you think is fake, especially everything you think about me. Someday you'll leave me or if not, it's probably best I leave you. Someday you'll die and no one will even remember you and nothing you ever said or thought will be relevant at all you fucking pretend not-real, total-fake, fake, stupid not thing. You mass of instability, you pattern of curling time bundled together around a cause of resistance like ripples caught curving around a shoot of grass poking up from a river. You towel. You compost in waiting. You secret meeting between 9-billion-year-old atoms using fake names in the parking lot of a deserted swampland truck stop. You abstraction. You flip flexible, drift decibels by the second into less than this, you blip blip, half-bit would-be a bitch if you could have kids. If you were a book, you wouldn't be the cover, you wouldn't be the story, you wouldn't be its letters, you are not the binding or the author or the characters. You're not even the only one that gets a peak at it, you barely even get to read half of it, no one gives a shit what you thought about it--you're fucking fake. You're just noise.

And that's the best news I've ever heard. Because what's real is so fucking real it's not even worth sacrificing a second for fake, fake-ass, ass-fake, flake-noodle-soup, red-number-six, drip, drop take a shit, say good bye to your relative you poop, pop sugar clot—fake! Half-baked clay scales draped turn-tables, 9-volt battery operated, at a Walmart flash bargain, n-word friday, super sale, semen weeping from the smiley face; fake. Old, cold, stand-off-smells-stagnant, stale, stalwart Stuart stew steam sterilized, bleached and alkalized; after-math hipster trash, hairy fashion nut-sack, hashtag garbage man, graveyard seance zombie friends, bebop space cadet, clown cowboy castaway, tells you which celebrities they like before they're dead. No need to tip the waiter, already bought their coffee fair trade. Fake.

Click-clack hacky sack Cadillac snap-chat; dread-lock head-lice private stash, stones for trade to suck your chakras out, knick-knack needle creeper, second-hand squealer, here-to-help-you-find-shit-you-didn't-know-was-stolen-yet tweaker. Tic-Tac make-out, nice-treat-turned-cheap-trick-turned-chapped-dick-turned-taxidermy-tax-exempted-preaching-penis-puppet-tap-dancer-cured-cancer-but-only-in-the-brochure, turned Alabama-bastard-alabaster, DC-TV-superhero-sidekick-turned-something-that-makes-even-less-sense-than-this fake! Found God in a pair of tube-socks and smoked Him right from the eucharist like a true fake christian, Zip Zap holy crack phantom. Fake-ass cross crawlers smoking crack-rocks out their ass-crack rock faith as fake as their fake-ass ass-faces. Poking nails through their palms, and putting masks on like Freddy Krueger so they can chase women down and staple their vaginas to save their disabled rape baby with one hand and shave away their healthcare, fair wages, educations, freedom from violence--I apologize I did not mean to talk politics my point is you're fucking fake. Everything you believe is fake. Your electrons refreshed a million times since reading this sentence. You are made of nothing real. You are limited by no such boundary. Nothing you do will ever be original, or matter for more than 6800 centuries. So do whatever the fuck you want to. Or don't, I don't give a shit. It doesn't matter, I'm just ending this poem because I have to.