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Work Was Murder

Whiskey won't kill this demon lust
A chokehold
What do I know of a free f*ck?
She bites me and I strike
A university diploma and a family
still, I'm bust
How much do I have stashed away
Before I have to go back out
humping scum?
On the highest level
But all right here at home
Produced for a select
Foreign market
What we shoot
What's the script
You've yet to know
 Feel the unique magic of rigor mortis
Squelch itself around your bone
Hit her, papa
Tear her, papa
The finest spread, my he-goat
Viagra for bulls
concocted by our sexy doctor
who mixes speed in with her coffee
Fast forward four days
Raped your son and mercy-killed your wife
to relieve the agony

Transformed by sordid cinema
and f*ck-dope,
you finally made a film
For art's sake
I got such a funny feeling
Passing by the black clad
Heads of a hateful state

Work was murder by machete
I recall
and blast the floor with rye and bile
One big happy family,
my brother's desire of my son's mother
 and my life
I beat his corpse revealed,

A Poetic Adaptation of the film, "A Serbian Film"
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Submitted on May 08, 2015

1:03 min read

Wesley Morin Claim this poet

I was borne in the soul of misery and I never had me a name... they just gave me a number when I was young... ***BANNED IN A HUNDRED THOUSAND COUNTRIES*** more…

All Wesley Morin poems | Wesley Morin Books

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