| An excerpt from Apocalyptic Ink Poets pack apocalyptic power in their pens as long as their inkwells are filled with the acid of unrest. I am reluctant to breathe for fear of absorbing your cowardly exhalations, your weak kneed prostrations, and gestations, and I refuse to remove the splinters from your wimpy rail-riding asses as you cower and grovel in a P C police state of mind, too afraid to offend, thoughts never to ascend above the safety net of plastic playthings and pretty alliterated lines of empty grace pontificated politely; Bullshit! |
