mr. mittens (akmed) wrote,
mr. mittens
akmed

" i found that essence rare / it's what i look for"

it's all about class and how ' protected' you are.

overprivileged drunk and going to Harvard, you can leave the bar i live in , stab some piece of working class white trash/ spic to death and you can post bail( a trifling 400,000- really, just loose change), so you can stay at home in white is right somerville and write your pansy- ass thesis on post- war Bosnia- while if i had stabbed the same man to death there's no fucking way i'd get bail-i'd be fighting to not be someone's bitch until trial. if you love me, send me cartons of cigarettes because i'm not really big and i look fairly fucking gay.

some black kid from Dorchester would be sunk in that essex county hell hole- while white ass 6 foot tall 200 pound bitch gets to wear a little wristelette and fly up his own bunghole- because we have justice in this Republik of Classbridge - self-absorbed white honkie pig bullshit candy-ass privelege. harvard and mit fuck us up the ass daily and we pay more rent and look at your overpriviledged pussies like we need you.. it's you who we should kill more of-you , while you're slumming it in the working class nigger bar.

fuck that to death. go back to the midwest or europe and mommy and daddy, bitch, because , yes, we fucking hate you. i'd shiv you by the dumpster and sleep like an angel.

but it's not about class, is it?

poor Berlin, still in jail for stealing one car to buy dope- if he hadn't been transgendered but had been black or a white upper class male writing his thesis about the dalai lama's butt cankers, he'd never have gone to jail. he needed protected species status or money- then he 'd be free.

you have nothing to offer unless we feel guilt over you( white man's burden, niggah, please) or YOU ARE ONE OF US or you can pay.

the scars are still on my fist- i slammed into the pavement, thrown over the handle bars of your bike. i did so much coke. we watched ' to kill a mockingbird' over and over in a blind fury. i couldn't love you. you couldn't love yourself. i couldn't love myself and we didn't have that father.... we had nothing but the knowledge that we didn't belong anywhere. i still see the blood rolling between my knuckles, knowing it's all wrong and i'll never be right.

on the 4th of july i'm drunk and sanding the side of the truck with G ..every 4th we both stagger around the driveway and wonder when the day will mean anything to either of us. half black/ half white half male /half female no one is waving a flag for us- no matter what we do.

against all odds , he's the only person i know that has ever accepted and respected me as a person . i hid him from the police and never asked why because i just knew i had to- there was no justice in it. no one else would do the same for me. cleaning guns and listening to the gang of four.

[ ' the problem of leisure
what to do for pleasure
ideal love-
a new purchase
a market for the senses
dream of the perfect life
economic circumstances
the body is good business
sell out, maintain the interest...
dream of the perfect life
this heaven gives me migraine..
we are not so gullible
our great expectations
a future for the good
fornication makes you happy
no escape from society
natural is not in it."]

when's my parade?- because i'll march over your fucking face.
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