| Current music: | Portishead Vs. The Cure |
bird in hand
inanimant
i can't seem to sleep
my mind wont relinquish:
the part of me
-that breathes in this chill and knows its apathy
weeps for my kind.
watch me react
time goes by.
(tick tick, tick tock)
with a steady grin
even off-the-handles been done.
this permutation but takes up space
a slot-filler
until its (finally) all been done.
the epoch's been accounted for.
repeat for me
the things that make you sad and human
do you blame anyone for a bored and fickle tendency?
for wanting to be bound
trussed up by you
bacause i have this, at least, to feel
and that is more than some.
most get so jaded, so quick,
waiting for the thread to fritter
and a good excuse to cease struggling.
little's left of innocence
a mouth, a need
an earth that bites thee by assocaition.
at least fires of decline
are by default devine
down stream, so long, past memories of stars
the most tempered of the strain look back
-the last thats left
to pan the camera for a dying god.
maybe spend the last of it
to edit what was left for us.
and make the background serindipitous.
whatever might garner their attention.
-fickle.
cares what for feedback, lessons in vapor?
it gives solace to know the end (?)
that there are eyes to see
it turn a final cold?
a thin soup, dispersed and slow
i might not go into such a feast of frenzied remanants
when theres nothing of the body left
and addicts live vicariously
through me
reduse, reuse,
frittered to an art crowd unamused by gestures that postpone the ebb.
a pointy-toed shoe conspiracy
news @ 11.
take whats left of me
by minutia
so slow you might not think i'd notice
but ultimatly i know your nature
you are but bound to me, my flesh, that i control
(i do)
watch through me that which is denied by thy very substrate.
what do i care
i'd live in a glass house.
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0fu) wrote,
