The world we live in is a distorted projection,
And this moment, naught but a polaroid dream:
Fires dancing at the edges and ink collapsing upon itself.
These streets have melted into bad acid lust visions,
Abandoned shopping cart homes, deep inner-city arm infections,
And other various tripping hazards.
Resolved, we residentially meander along,
Keep our heads firmly fixed to glass floors shattering florescent and
The crunching of our boots gracing the bent forms of those beneath,
Finger-painting cragged gravel surfaces opaque with their pupils
And filling the potholes with Sisyphean shortcomings.
Hammer-handed, delusional, needle-minded, and insecure,
We turn our heads towards the sun and bleach the pale expanse of our sight
As we construct these hyperboreal steel escapes ever higher,
High enough to puncture the heavens, for we know that perfection
Does not lie naked and pallid beside us under thousand count satin blankets
Lashing at morning's anemic figure with languid nine-tail eyes,
Punishment for violating her restraining order and for crossing closed borders:
Those heavy curtains bought for the sole purpose of keeping strangers out
Lay rolled aside and unguarded in the storm of light,
And our clothes lay scattered around the altar, cast off and discarded for the next life.
'Perfection,' the dawn mused, 'perfection lies in the unreachable.'
We stretch out the length of our bonds like aroused house cats,
Rattle the foundation till we loosen the bolts just enough
To overextend ourselves,
Rub elevator gears with Vaseline and arrange what's left of the dust
Energetically and meticulously into perfectly straight lines,
Blow everything so high that even the steel buildings get nosebleeds;
So damn high that we pierce the heavens and rain the whole sky dry;
Then restart, humidify, and breathe deep the dreams of a narcotic sleep.
Our skin arid and cracking with the toll of dry conversations held over
Three course dinners beneath mirrored ceilings polished to focal points;
On top of endless dunes of wasted days and wasted praise
And of meaningless three ways sprawling on the beaches
Where no one sleeps and no one wakes and nothing you do ever matters.
I removed a pack of gold, hotel-crest trimmed crimson, from my match collection
And a footstool to grab a white shine jar of light from the shelf of my shed,
Lit sticks of incense and watched the air smolder, warp, and burn;
Held the match stick till it branded my thumbprint with glass.
Put a scent to darkness and am forever marked by my awareness.
Every message conceals claustrophobic spirals trying to escape,
An imprint, a unique tattoo we accept unto our being;
Roll the heads down the stairs and hold our daggers high,
We are nothing but a single instant of this world, a distorted projection
Of everything and everyone we never loved.
Woe, the forgotten man
Remembered only for being forgotten,
A pure, untainted, lobotomized canvas decorated with spoiled milk.
Preach to the tired, the poor, the huddled and the yearning, 'Cast aside
Demons, my friend! Cast aside all spiritual rubbish!
Overturn the lottery ticket wheelbarrows and drain pensions wasted
In whiskey shots and The American Dream!'
Because we can.