It may not get any better
Despite the that’ll-do-pig-that’ll-do condescending words of some highly carcinogenic celebrity whose comparative lifestyle may as well make them a three-eyed telepathic Venusian with ten forms of sexual genitalia.
But I can tell you this: there’s not a single person I’d rather mix mediocrities with
Let’s soak ourselves in the self-centered Satanic cult selfishness that has always been core in the concept of love
I want to raise a Manson family with you and have a foreclosed house with a backyard that will be clear of desiccated meth-head corpses at least fifty percent of the time
Sacrificing the spirits of the past, present, future, let them all bleed on the altar of us, love is as brashly eternal as that one quiet kid you remember in school who blew his brains out during summer break
Let’s hold hands and do drive-by screaming sessions at previous generations full of retired pimps and hustlers whose wizened features seem like one last phony con, having already made their mark in one grand cosmic acidic bukkake facial across the American Dream and accused us of entitlement
Let’s cut the wings off of our hopeless dreams and use them to make little paper butterflies covered in crudely sketched obscenities heedlessly targeting whoever dares picks them up as they float on by.
Sanbud Tehrani is a Persian American millennial poet based in Southern California who dabbles in surrealist automatist techniques. Sanbud is very much the kind of person who finds describing his identity and life in an author’s blurb perplexing and uncomfortable. He’s certainly the only Sanbud in the world, if that’s of any interest.
