What is the soul…is it a puff of cloud…is it a whisper of sacred secret…the soul is the magic of life…a tiny faint whisper…a chant of the hymn of the birds…a psychedelic music of the heart…ants creep into the soul and sing a lullaby…the soul should be rid of fanatic faith…the soul is a fecundity of the heart…I have been writing the sin of the fruit…I long to fornicate and adulterize my soul….sacred heart of Jesus forgive me…Yes, I am drunk now…proletarian rum of Karl Marx…where are my values…they are buried in a heap of dirty clothes…I am sunk in the abyss of existential shit…Nations you have to be fucked up in the Illuminati of the UNO…I am not a fucking Hindu living in Indian shores…let me coin metaphors of poetry…love, you have left me Sheeba Johnson…I am a fucking piece of shit…How many times do men and women shit and piss in a day? Every day I pour incense on to the all Seeing Eye and the Unfinished Pyramid. I don’t care about money. I am under the tutelage of the Illuminati. I am a wandering piece of shit. I am a fucking brown. I enjoy shitting. I love the feeling of pain when my anal muscles contract and expand. Pieces of shit long ones, short ones are released into the commode. Shit is the poetry of music.

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