Poem: Centipede with Carpet Slippers

There is acid dripping on my mind
And now there's a centipede in my bed
I think that I must be going blind
As he is telling me all literature is dead
I ask him if he wiped his feet
But he says that he's wearing carpet slippers
There are footprints on the fitted sheet
With shiny poles and dancing strippers

Their dance foretells and forebodes
Our future is prefixed with a hashtag
The English language thrown into a garbage bag
And as I fumble for a sweat rag
Centipede is beside himself and running wild
We both sob like a frightened child
The strippers seduce us with their charming stare
With their writhing bodies and flowing hair

Centipede grabs and holds me back
Slaps me a hundred times across my cheek
I was a moment away from being a hack
An abbreviating, misspelling, uninspired freak
The acid stops dripping now
The sweat dries up on my brow
Centipede starts to fade away
Don't go away, Please stay!

But now he is on the other side
The footprints and the strippers gone
I frantically look for a place to hide
Perhaps in a book of English verse
Until the passing of the hashtag hearse
They will mourn as I show scorn
They will cry and ask me why
Because that was just a fleeting high
The literature I smoke is permanent
And where the hashtag bodies lie
Literature will destroy any remnant.
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