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the Undie turd

the skid marks show through whatever modesty we may choose to cover our tracks as though nothing can erase the stains we have left on this world a club where the sons of decadent atrophy play with the minds and lives of all who walk the earth spinning myths around lack of proof that their way consists of right acts poking through the miasma of dread that behooves us spiritually as much existentially to be kind to one another though it is essentially this that is bypassed to show heartlessness instead as a cold exterior that one would rather kill than be killed by the monotony of Mankind’s self-righteous broad strokes to wither an open relationship with others defined by the individual in wants and needs and desires, taken to extents of jagged aggressive offense to thrust a menacing phallic forearm out to strike into the gut flora of another animal of a mind to be cruel in place of kindness to the actions we look down our noses at over an ideal of common in a sense that keeps us delivered from confusion even though that is quite a bit more common than the right sense when any peculiar situation colludes with another to coalesce into the product of human threads strung out along the tethers that hold fragile humanity from breaking down too far, and as we witness this like the wired collective we are Here evacuated by the fires that churn our blood into piss as we mutilate with humiliation the suspension of disbelief that cradles in concrete that urge to escape as the streets are too scattered and broken off where the feet were meant to be carrying our souls into a sunset graced by the will of a god we cannot see but kills by that same coup de grace of its own accord as made from a vague image of a Mankind caught like the glimpse of a firefly burning its way up the sky toward uncertainty though unknown without the particular baggage of the humans being frugal in methods and change… loose as it is savored by the sorts who tend to do that sort of thing taking on challenges that few are as wise enough to liberate their minds for as deny these walls that burden the common plan of a people left fending for any kind of opportunity that walks their way or against the changes as wrought into existence by such as the twisted games we play upon each other wandering lands that have been Here long before the log dropped in the woods where no one else was there to hear it, the fire wood roaring in the pit, deepened by the layers of sentiment left by the weeping travelers who threw in their own garbage and dramatic baggage toward fiery doom with a slight twitch of tender emotion at the bottom whose smoke fades out earlier while the closer to embers it gets as we can purge our stories around the wild balefire fits that call onto us to pull out our tongues tasting our failures in the hideous flavor as we dart stitch and weave amongst industrious fires of intrigue as adventure in the hostile hostel of our saviors engrained by waves of myth and legend ending meaning this day…

Thanks, khet.