Ayn Rand

What is
your conundrum?
What is your
puzzle?
What is your Anglican mystery?
Is it your god?
Is it your vagina?
Do you feel it in that sad place?
Are you mocked for it?
Fucked for it?
Christened in Persepoli?
Loved?
Aboved?
Guardianed by hairy men?
Qualified by merry men?
Aborted by a quick decision?
Too bad
you weren’t
unhappy
irrelevant.
Love is a well made lawn
is a tall gray home
is a catastrophic cum
you flail in the cunt debris
victim of the busy bee
misdeliveries
in the wet nurse moon-light
comatose
in the high school spot light
a pathetic delivery son of I Am
Yahweh singing
doo-dee-doo-doo – I am Ayn Rand.

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