your mind skips like a warped record on a jagged turntable. jaded faces turn their noses up in a defensive posturing performed by pseudo artists that is commonly referred to as pretension.
the light hits the cliffs in blacks and whites with neutral grey distinguishing their imperfections. bodies littler the alcove like bottles and condom wrappers clutter on shores of dying industrial cities. this picture is the envisage of a dying message.
freedom can not be fought for, and at best it can only be embraced amongst others that legislate bans and advisory labels.
if i could placate an age limit to depth perception, blindness would be a misfortune to no one. ignorance is the privilege of all, and to my dismay, it is abused copiously.
fathers can no longer shield their children from dioxin with face masks and consumer consciousness.
we are two vultures tearing at one corpse. dragging the carcass through packs of wild dogs, nipping our heels on the trail as we cut the air with our wings.
there are selfless lovers that envy the ties that bond us. even scavengers collaborate to strip the excess from decomposition, or other scavengers. we are a canker sore under their tongues, and the tongue that irritates it.
when one of us should fall behind, the other abandons and comes back for the scraps. selfishness provides at some point.
it is only when you lose that you gain the will to give.
then you will see that one is not abandoned by the other, it is retreated by both.
zeus hurdles over himself, and cripples the meadows and soils with his lightning bolt hand. children play cops with rocks, ironic, and cut themselves on shale.
the badlands have not yet begun to kiss their living counterparts with reciprocity. this distate is mutual, and the gag reflexes are mass graves, millions deep. the scent is covered by nuclear waste as it seeps through the dirt
saturating the flesh like kerosene or patchouli. an irremovable, oily stench that identifies just what type of waste you will turn.
gods are a past time, and they left us a message in fate. there is none scrawled in the ancient mounds of south america or the stones erected into monuments of idleness and constant thought.
we found the hotel room our father bastardized us for. there were liquor bottles and torn panties strewn over it, but no one was there.
