DEADNECK MANIFESTO
Tongues polish shit heels to the cancerous joy of an upturned short bus full of ratfuck marks. An all-time prick-sore thoroughly consumed by the fear of inauthenticity that it self-sabotaged into an assault charge. I heard you were nice in an email twenty years ago. That in person, you'd shake hands with the same one that beat the living shit out of teenagers you fuck behind the back of your dying wife, who you also like to smack around for the sake of aesthetic terrorist armor built by a bullied kid for them to wallow in all the way to the cusp of an old age annhiliative ideation would return to claim. But hey man, you had a good fifteen years at the end there; laundering hard right talking points for the benefit of whoever stuck around from the good 88 days, eager to nibble at the table scraps dropped on the floor by the pod person scammer class while grumbling "they owe their stroke all to me", jealous over their ability to dark monetize the coarse generalities, hack...
