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…poop And flowers…

…broken sighs of redemption cramping styles in fashion and fads cashing in while there is credit in the excess consumption we are serving disease from as hotly-debated a seat where need want and supply all intermingle sometimes with our heads above water enough to see the waves and the depth before we drown under a sudden and scary gravity of a tugging pull usually one at a time though in others at great flushing sweeps all together, nothing to be recovered from a vast surfacing scene floating in the aftermath one has to dive further below to follow into dangerous limits where those things go as the route is so regular to dispose of a vast array of objects whose destination mostly stays unknown by the massive of those awake and dreaming through the ebb and flow of most modern conveniences retaining the urgent duty to get our hands dirty ourselves manually as a ‘car-bidet-em’ perhaps throughout those invariable progress of time and the smallest destiny that defines this as certainty from human baby steps to big person pants as our journey expands, out of faith or primal demands commanding our travels one can never be absolute when it comes to these shifting sands that seem to reduce reuse and recycle concepts and people as all projected propaganda for the movements tell each in their own words messages to engage through this absurdist trauma it inflicts on us through our own dramas branching just out of reach once the damage is done and piercing defiance removed from aggravated proximity to players left displayed at this stage for the worst while the managers who busy attempting to arrange this ill-conceived socio-mecha-nomical fever dream scheme thinking themselves taking the thoughtful place as of a greater good masked right or somehow higher than anyone else participating in this lemonade masquerade at large… singly or as groups of communities whom commute and commune communicate to convey what we may have learned so far of this epic saga, seizing the backside to wash it metaphorically while weaving through the human traffic that threatens to subsume or doom to damned room by room as emotion can strand those who cannot navigate to sink in those quick sands corrosion leaking out of the glass tower fragile so fast while shadows cast their glory stamps upon everything they touch or break “nothing lasts” kisses to these ears sounding shattered into planes of pane to further yet fragment still lives to shards fading vapors gas-lit memories past though not forgotten ever when some surprise remnant lingers long enough sat there fearing that every pain is a trigger that we must probe with blood-stained stool fingers coaxing deeper to figure out what dark unknown we’ve become curiously obsessed to death, as dancers we motion a macabre morality mortally gathering in its’ grateful grotesque swerve and severity sending the momentous energy to dally with us all a bit longer whose gruesome counterpoint embodies wear-and-tear no walk-on-the-beach erosion perhaps epitomized in the lines “you can’t always get what you want”… this because savage ravagers pissing into our plastic eyes and calling that acid ‘rain’ sadly with very few of us ever knowing we were used as a human toilet Here where sewage reigns extreme no matter how cleansed one ascribes out of fearful stigma adherence to their gods by believing in apoptotic prophets instead of growing up the power flower through that dark soil from which we stem arise strong enough to use this abusive excrement we are left with to our advantage perhaps to damage those whom offended us initially this way…

thanks, khet_:/