Pretentious babbling, birthed for mass consumption.
Pale styrofoam shimmers like stained glass on sapphire
bitter sighs, a portent of uncertainty
notes of cinnamon and sucralose
But the dead know not of our convenience
their waxen bones do not grow cold
cadavers never born
but stolen
All in, 22 red, how do you do, sir?, peace be with you, sir
Cacophony of sweet voices, lips of salty poison
Stings on the soft cheek, or am I drunk again?
Gravity, octane, lens of all sizes
Go big go broke, all candy no smoke
please sign on the dotted line
The aluminum haze gives way to that monolith
through cracked distance and waves of tar
the broken bolted back together, the irreparable goodbye
I watch the birds pass and wonder
What wrench will fit this misshapen form
But the chop shop has its ways
Verdant fields rise for impudent minds
The automaton stomps faithfully under the warm sun
Create, procreate, produce, reproduce
The goal of all living things
A crop the ox will never taste (for it wants not!)
Babe sold to the highest bidder (for it needs not!)
To live is
a contract
I run my scrying fingers over this record's grooves
and feel the warmth of an old friend.
A well worn pair of shoes
a record of my travels in crimson ink.
Flesh tears and mends as the ebb and flow of the tide
Nothing is permanent.
Perfect little lines. Straight. Organized.
Intentional. Goal-oriented. Transactional.
Who are you to question what form I choose to take?