Wednesday, October 27, 2010


Where they call it 'urban coral',
Under galvanized bridges
Slimy alleys filled with the creatures that you love
With the substances [in all probability] you’re addicted to
The polyps of our smut take root
 disgustingly fertile environments flourish  
 The factories make a luxurious French-inhale
Against The burning canopy that sags in the background
Moments before it transformes… into a molten pile of (plastic)
I saw you there
Standing among the orange sellers
On the side of the freeway,
I could not resist the taste of each-and-every-single morsel you had
As if I could ever be filled.

I say this, fantasizing about a handful of Norco
And riding a train off into god-knows-where, for who-cares-why
Because I believe that money is the Santa clause for adults.
And that there are way too many people
To those same lumberjacks that believe in making the world a better place
What I mean is that everyone is a liar.

Where we can no longer remain a part of your world
And still call ourselves “sane”
Because There is a reason cyanobacteria can grow
in the steamy wet cracks of the pustules of the earth
Fungus learned how to carry it up rocks, like the flag of the universal
each step backwards brings us closer and closer to the essence  
But this world cannot carry that banner
in this psychological charade we are at the mercy of the mushrooms-
This sphere engenders the illusion of perfection
As if any one of us could ever become
The madness that our respective minds cook up
Perfection is only a theory
Excellence is the particular phenomenon   
in which; somewhere between everything and nothing
lies absolution


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