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Knows to the Grindhouse

divided by some into groups to easily categorize the assault leaving wounds in too brash to notice as pieces of pieces are sailing lost amongst the dark hoarded apex of enlightenment in the peace of resistance, sordid on all sides of the argument into illuminated states broadly earning their keep by trading information along the lines of communication breakdown dysfunctional at the times that count, but still we will strive to raise our minds up out of the hive that drives the lesser of us insane from the standard bearing some people up on crosses to make their suffering the form of escape that no one leaves… just to shake the trees sorting for diseased fruit that will fall onto the ground floor picked and raped by decay and abusive as discriminating glares of the massive laying nature to waste with their ignorance a loveless dance, where the drained and bothered try ritualizing the lifestyle like the slaves to extracurricular idols as saints with the church veneer and the shining screen teeth eating against type the believers and their beliefs like a treat or snack of casual urge to consume, but to assume the ends means nothing of the result of attacking with a hunger gnawing restlessly in aggressive longing to conquer the meal one presumes to give its livelihood for a value in the devourers’ cookbook canceling one residual avenue for food… sustenance in small steps taking critical charge as the visually gory love for blood pours off from the screaming faces raped and tortured in scenes witnessed flickering through a tiny window quantified by experience of cheapened trauma allowing the dismissal of the real fates of the human beings who have lived or haven’t through the worst kinds of man-made calamity as mass killing and serial slayers’ stories manufactured into motion picture annals of infamy allowed into the consciousness at large, and eventually everyone references popular culture whose surface demeanor is like the models who parade through flashes and glimmers of fame as they strut the runways somewhere in-between this reality and a fake where even the glorious whores are made to pay for trafficking in distasteful cargoes whose mission it was to warp the truth as the value of money over-weighed the compassion needed to succeed in this industry that kills its young, with split second decisions we drive train home as conductor of our own affairs in the solace of where our heart sits beating and slightly resting but scared of an end that might push us forward off the cliff into the unknown abyss…

Thanks, khet.