There, in the thought-terminating-cliche
all of it—
The lay of the universe,
seems so clear and convoluted,
in all of its majestic filth
Pixelated into the hard edge,
and still observably invisible
As the brothers of the wind each had different names
are these not the brothers of extradimensional currents?
I envision the atmosphere as layered scales superimposed across the blithe unhappiness i feel toward myself
Unnamed and invisible,
Awash in the absolving tides of winter
As everything has equitable importance in the apathy of man
The gurgle of their machines, every morning, and night and weekend;
a refresh in the vulgarity of it all
As if there is any meaning
where shelter from the cold bears more prevalence than the forethought to not be exposed
It plays out so predictably,
as if the end is already determined
and they forget that I am the narrator of this vignette
automaton devoid of voice, correcting speech
played along to such ends that this skin can shed.
Awakening some new form in the face of upheaval
Where circumstance and obedience have resolved into nothing
(And how could it?)
As pouring concrete for a dead world,
a world that is dissolving into a dead mall
And I feel like such a husk, as if I have shed everything
over and over so many times
As if the anthem of my soul is distant droning sirens
The symphony of train horns
it starts like a distant whisper,
as a dust storm evolving into a synthesized zenith
Irresistible in a way beyond words.
the slow peel of bark in ribbons
The cold sting of a scab coming loose
As hunger gives clarity,
pain is an equitable teacher
To a future that remembers nothing.
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