Unix Machines (a poem)

If you’re working from a Unix machine,
and you’re not doing stuff from the terminal
there is little hope, my low t brainlet,
do everything from the terminal and
be a man.

I am right wing now and sorry the glands
that release hormones are ductless, are
you sure you want to leave this
quiet individual best ass i’ve ever
seen?

I am hyperaware and I’m an asshole
looking at me trying to win the poetry
and reading on the blurb over and over
‘Ashbery is the great original of his
generation’

teenage girls used to have competitions
to see who could suck the most dick
I heard they just lined up all the boys
and went down on them one by one. I missed
the party.

at that age I would place my hands upon
my ears and listen to the fog of blood
sounding like “ooooooooooooooooooooooooo”
and when you take your hands off quickly
“weh”

the best ass i’ve ever seen is sat
in front of me in the library and we
are falling in love torturing each other
with yoga pants and getting yoked less on
facebook.

I didn’t understand that when you died
you lost gold and xp. So i died and died
and died, and in the end it didn’t even
matter because i made up for the lost gold
and xp.

like my inbox upon your outbox I placed
all the poetry I placed it all like I placed
you in the bin in my mind labelled ‘other’
then all i saw in the dyson air blade pool was
you quite expectedly.