There's no building around and there's
no getting out
When my object of hate's what I can't
live without.
I'd just hurt my cause and claim death
as reward,
Simply leaving this culture that I've
long abhorred,
These regional coverings on
pan-national hives,
To which we're enslaved in
convenience's guise.
Nor are these symptoms lightened by a
talking cure.
Who'd listen to thoughts so insane and
impure?
No, my only choice is subversive – to
write,
To spin allegory in pulp fiction's
guise,
To repurpose these stories, to
explicate life,
To use the distractions against their
own hives.
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