It feels like holding an object from another plane
In my coat. I feel it weigh like disappointment incarnate.
This, this shit. Comes from another place.
And that place is made of fire
This shit, is what burns that one girl’s forests to ashes.
It has decimated your landscape
That much is obvious; when looked upon.
And I walked it out to the rainbow road
And turned it into dust, in the middle of the street.
To go and poison the city some more
In little glittery glass fragments
That get stuck under the feet
Of people trying to walk barefoot to the beach.
There is a kind of gentle spite to the lay of it
A sort of passive-aggressive control.
And just eons of miserable nostalgia.
-I have time for none of it.
-Just, the hopelessness of it
And there’s a reason why—
And the answer to that is
More hopeless.
And then erodes into
Some other nonsense
-And I’ve got time for none of it—
Because I know
that every second I spend feeling hopeless is a second I have
lost
to feel excited, or happy, or orgasmic.
Or just anything but hopeless.
And I can only imagine
What that must feel like:
To be the thing that is difficult to put to language
And you’ll go on setting fire to your plane
With shit like this.
It is part of you at this point
as if a child that still plays with matches
after the house has burned down
no we cant get a new puppy. no honey he's not coming back.
As if fire has shaped the landscape
to the point of tectonic instability
it cannot even conceive of something
stable enough to grow moss
as if:
the rapid consumption of landscape
never establishes anything of permanence.
We are the evenings of city life
Drunken adventures by the sea
Beneath the lights of lifestyles we can’t afford
In spheres of people we will never know
As we, ourselves occupy spheres
Dreams must be made into reality
And for this we must awaken.
Everyday.
Everyday, for as long as we can.
Putting one foot in front of the other
No matter what size our feet might be
And being brave enough to progress into the future
One step at a time
