Friday, April 6, 2012

Science Fiction Pity

to write to write O terrible blue sky droops indifferent,
languidly above me sleeping head, sleeping body not yet
ready to move, a silly dream tangled and hanging in the
idiot garden of my thoughts, I'm not ready to give it up;
tho it's dead for sure, forever, but only because there's something
to say amounting to a curse, like veiny needles hitched into my arms
spilling the shit junk killer that consumes almost every one, every one
of us, pity, pity fools, what's this relationship about? Going home to
finish, no one needs to stay, the machines would run themselves, or
we could imagine and they would, only the roads would crumble like
they have already, I saw it, the pulsing globe out there beyond stars
together, moaning mournfully, my gods are fools laughing in the gold
morning crumbling cake light that hides the void,
lifting our heads aloft, to the port off the peer, clanging bells of the inevitable finish,
crying atrophy! Be me! Aim here! I'm telling the story of a fevered mind to be ignored
completely for our own good

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