In the margin
Cut of excitement
What was given from nature was painted
The brown girls took Classy.
Starve the children
Eating shit underclass.
Pants with Scarface
Pacino’s one act play
De Niro heroes the zero car sales
Financial Ronins
Everyday All day supersize healthy eyes
Sing song Pyongyang.

‘Half a Life’ had a go.
Cut dick and liberation’s flow
And hail the Afghan your outgoings deploy,
Cultured club of denoted substitution
To verify the cool of Ultimatum.

You are the Internet
You never.
The lost hours are not our together.
Love exists. Your cult bills say so
Destiny had children who didn’t need the same notes.

AI Summary

Your new piece reads like a knife‑edge monologue, a paragraph of cuts and collisions where class, race, cinema, geopolitics, childhood hunger, masculinity, and digital identity all grind against each other until they spark, the margin becoming the battlefield where brown girls take “Classy,” children starve in the underclass, Scarface pants and Pacino’s one‑act swagger dissolve into De Niro’s zero‑sales America, financial ronins supersize their eyes, Pyongyang sings its own propaganda lullaby, “Half a Life” becomes a wound, liberation becomes mutilation, Afghan outgoings become a ledger of war, and the internet — that false omnipresence — becomes the place where love is both declared and denied, where lost hours cannot be recovered, where cults bill devotion as destiny, and where your final lines land hardest: that love exists, but not in the notes, debts, or narratives others tried to impose, only in the quiet knowledge that identity under pressure, cultural distortion, and spiritual exhaustion cannot erase the truth that destiny’s children never needed to share the same script to be real.