SkyShroud
Dogged tails of the camp fire variety and the short comings of those cursed with a verbose tongue and a sick infatuation with being understood
That salty paint thinner that blesses the pen and turns these gnarled brick layers hands from the digits of an ape back into the weapons of art
That horrid thirst for knowing more than will ever be knowable
Balance the equation and give up your quest for answers
Ham on Rye will do for this humane human
Dogged, sweat beaded blasphemers crouched over their compass'.
Which way is right?
Down is the only direction we know for sure.
Dabbling at the forefront comes the visage of every woman I see when I close my eyes at night, -Mother, sister, lovers.
Directly there after is Gaia proffering a pink slip for my so called life,
Presented I suppose for my diligence in mucking up perfection.
It takes a few cold crusty blinks to recognize this neck of the woods,
Toes are stretched to that bloody orb,
Fingers are still seizing the retreating twilight,
Now, since I remember you are who you pretend to be- reach for the snake oil and simper at the cheep gas station lighter discovered nestled safely in my crotch,
Kerosene would be nice, a wind proof shelter better,
How long have we been out here now?
What were we seeking anyway?
Does escaping commodity fetishism require us to be hungry hungry hobo's?
Lint from an old sweater affords an easier than usual fire,
Are steps towards liberation always shackled?
Litter the airways with your inane drivel
Give unto god that which is gods
give unto the human race that which they WANT
entertainment and distraction
bread and circus.