In these days’ sterility of authenticity,
I’d rather indulge myself in my own company
than sojourn in the modern-day periphery.
Oh the periphery, the pseudo-world of the dummy.
In the periphery where intellectuality
is ridiculed or disconcerts for its rarity.
Where shallow humor and tweeting stupidity
benefit your pocket to purchase a can of dignity.
In the periphery where exterior beauty
paves the way to celebrity;
where tears have become a manipulation of the phony,
and where opinion is valued with currency.
In the periphery, just as Fiona and Kurt see,
is where the idiots throw a good party
to publicly stroke their cock and pussy.
Everybody knows Holden but no heart knows him, really.
In the periphery, everyone tries to define beauty
but cannot see beyond its superficiality.
Where the redundancy of tunes is referred to as artistry
and swift marketing is seen as philanthropy.
In the periphery where heredity
defines your position in the national tree,
and where the struggle for equality
is but a mere strategy for the gimmicky.
In the periphery, fucking periphery,
where it’s hardly ever sincere to say ‘me’.
Happy comes in a box packed with the approval of everybody.
Self-worth can be metered with the most handsome penis in your cavity.
In the periphery where equality
means everyone’s a carbon copy
of another carbon copy
of another carbon copy.
A spit in the face of individuality.
In the periphery, oh the periphery.
Fuck the periphery. You can’t fuck with me.
This bullshit needs a deadline. Or not.
No, I’ve no angst nor I’m ever lonely.
I’m desolate. An emotional Gobi desert.
And I’m going to fucking violate this fucking monotony.
It’s yours to own, this world for the undercut hair.
This world is not for me. Does not define me.
This world doesn’t see soul, only body.
Ha! How very Machiavelli.
But you can use my body. Corrupt it, if you must.
It isn’t me, will never be.
Shoot your insecurity inside me that reeks of Clorox.
Because I’m nobody, nobody, nobody
nobody, nobody, nobody.
I’ve no body.