Horrification

O gentle ore, your mores are bores.
These pews are lewd, in real wooden
fashion. Splinters are your sprinters,
vanning through the aisle to bring
simple to the syrup. Water these 
marches, they are all starches. 
Potato. You've never thought 
tomato. Pronunciation is your
politics. And your impolitic 
is an oversimplified verb. And
yes, I am sitting, judging, not
even wishing. Let the chaos
rain rain rain. Pain pain pain.
Is that a devil of a retail? For
sale: maybe blues, severed,
bored. Sadness can only 
defeat anger if it is over
whelming. And there is no 
overwhelming in this comfy
modern. It's like a modem that 
is too slow by all global standards,
too fast to be replaced. This is an
internet of a problem, this vague
This. Fizzes not worth the squeeze. 
A can with a tiny hole, crunchable.
Corn syrup on the dole. A hole,
a cold, a sweet swerving asphalt,
melting in this unadulterated 
fisker sun. How many tasks 
until these white socks wilt?
That's the wrong accelerationism.
Bricks, scattered. Licks, smattered.
Nicks, battered. The storm would 
have to be so far beyond subjunctive 
to demolish this subjective. And while
I may dream of lean times, the meat
wagon runneth over. The blood spills
and trills with the ghosts of cows not
long past. And these moos will only
coo in the minds of the rare airs. So
yes, call me an elitist, an asshole, an
atheist.