The privilege to die alone
where the trains and the refineries poisoned everything
I want to be alone. At one with nothing
Curling into a ball like a little cancerous little dormouse
Sleep it all off. forever
in the name of some new atrocities, that I no longer find the will to fight.
And there this lingering feeling, like, I was supposed to do something
in some other reality I surely missed a stop on the train
I don't know where I am anymore, and I also don’t care
my body feels like a haunted house
there’s nothing to offer beyond the labor of my meat or the wrath of my mind.
And I can’t stop looking at the shitstorm
In its insurmountable endlessness
Where the beast never tires
the storm that never stops
And I’m exhausted.
My soul hurts.
Or is this the onset of some blood-borne cancer?
These tendons and joints and spine are all expressing their existence to me
and I won’t become anything of relevance
so this all seems so scripted.
as a predictable, fragile anger.
And the truth is; I'm bored.
While ‘exciting’ is a neutral term,
the excitement of chaotic redundancy wanes
There, in the recycler.
As a hive of fencing semi-precious metals
Shopping carts buzzing in and out, as disgusting as cockroaches
Scurrying in and out of the shadowy places
In the service of the drug.
Beneath a sign that proudly says: “Praise the Lord.”
As if salvation is stolen metal in exchange for dope.
As a cathedral to depravity
The atrocities of this faith have become vulgar
Begging an awoken reality in the face of this
Is this how I'm going to spend my time? My life?
I think not.
we must shake this intransient, financially impossible state
And I don’t know how.
As some migratory bird shanghaied in the mountains
The shifting trade winds, have been favorable
until now
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