Manifesto

A blank paper to be filled,
The pen well with
your blood as the ink.

A heart for it, held in steel,
But a flame within nonetheless,
with heat enough to set
this damned old world aflame.

Better Meals For Us

Even we the unseen
would have it the best,

Though not in the
picture perfect postcards
of glossy magazine fantasies.

We still have our square meals a day,
But well with one noted difference;

We don't fucking choke on plastic.

Implosion

Of swirling clouds
as thick as swirling vomit.
Nausea poisons clarity and manners,
Rendering the soul gutted like
dead flowers by a tomb.

Of the sun and moon well
in motion in time,
so is the ropes giving way
to this strain of pain;
pain in mind, bearing it's
fruit to the body,
All this, you are given one option,
to keep marching well in silence,
Even when the whole ground
below you falls in one deep dark hole.

The frank truth of social realism

Of what is drawn
And painted is a record,
Of truth spoken to all,
best in it's shit-toned colors,
Not of the respectable
gloss of A-list exhibits,
Of cannibalistic dead-head survivalists
and the legions of cultural necrophiliacs,
breezily observing the
burning embers of this world,
much so, feigning empathy
as well as decent human heartbeat,
But well of no real perception,
No surprises. Given the obvious cranial emptiness .

A circle of bitter tongues

To be in the know,
From within the church pews
to the ranks of the walking dead,
Of sordid moralistic pantomimes
yielding well the harvest of dried skulls.

Nothing. But the plain tragedy
that it leaves festering,
Such damages worse than
scuttled ships for a war effort.

A Morning passage

Exiting the Dark Tunnel

The Mall

How is it such
preconceived creations of light and glass,
paid well by the earnings of the capitalist machine,
Only inspires a weariness to the soul,
Of these sheen of plastic and vacant
that could have been angelic,
Like that of the wings of the cherubim
against the marvel of dawn sunlight.


But alas, to actually be perceptive
enough to see through such facades.

A Faded Postcard from Subterrania

The only oscillating light
to this journey,
are shadows fluttering
amidst the fluorescent
lit tunnels,
of snake like passages
making it's decent into the depths.

The journey one has to take,
But of the question of closure;
sweet liberation to be felt finally
in the flesh.

To this, a reality of it that's yet unseen.