Survival Mode

They say everything is fair in love and war, but only the poor get it,

The poor souls lost between being ethical sluts and Machiavellian lovers,

Desperate for food, soul food, something of substance to hold up,

In this cold fuckin’ world, love is not acquisitions and mergers,

It’s not banking or commerce, marketing or science, it’s shrewd survival,

Those with money in the bank, or friends to spare, who can Rolodex,

A shoulder to cry on, who have spend their cash on shamans and drugs,

Therapists, psychiatrists, psychologists, and priests, warm vacations,

They don’t have a clue why we do what we do, us in survival mode,

Just hoping for the next day, cursed for seeking affection, spite and rage,

Such is the calculus of the heart, we don’t scheme, we scramble,

In a void, depression, black absence, what is there but the best hug you can find?

Never trust a banker, or a rich man, or a rich woman, social capital or money,

I have learned, to be poor is to do it yourself, to make your own way,

To not rely on anyone, but learn to see everyone as a lover, polyamorous,

My friend Sarah said to me, “You’re not rich enough for a girlfriend,”

“Check out the poly scene,” wasn’t a fan, but didn’t know, the Prince is just serving his people,

Survival of the fittest, let’s stop denying it, biology still reins, in our veins,

African steppes and ancient drives, reproduction and provision, never forget.

Don’t kid yourself it’s not in your genes, a hungry, cornered animal will survive…

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