And drench in
the oozing gloss
of this cesspool Technicolor.
and watch it flow
as we absorb the rich,
buttery, sultry sound
that mixes its oils within us
and amalgamates with our oceans.
Watch, absorbingly, our arid lands,
once barren of “delectatious lubricatious” existence.
“Like winters winds,
I was blown across granite rough earth,
a dead leaf,
slowly chipped away,
one fragment at a time
to refertilise and bring springs’ rebirth.”
Our death is inevitable.
Our death is natural.
Death founded lifes’ meaning: its purpose.
Squeeze our lungs to see
the spew that has become our rationality,
indifferent to the differentiating lines of
truth and reality.
percolating as it is,
through our veins.
Be careful not to become the selfsame world
that drenches its hands in our waste
that they taught us is knowledge.
This world rubs its hands along the arid earth;
mixing rancid spew with purer dirt;
splatters remains of blackened, sullied dreams;
across blank canvases of tomorrows’ nightmares,
and yesterdays’ careless screams.
Demand from the world a pursuit of life
Dying is easy,
it is the living that is hard.