The scrapyard beckons,
The dark art of light refraction,
Where we pile on our dissatisfactions
As if they own us,
As if their price will go up
This time, if only this one time
Then we're flush
As the skies that promise nothing,
Nothing to deny us.
The dark art of light refraction,
Where we pile on our dissatisfactions
As if they own us,
As if their price will go up
This time, if only this one time
Then we're flush
As the skies that promise nothing,
Nothing to deny us.
We list between piles of bitter complaint
That the one we have left,
Our mythical selves,
Can't compete
With the sleaze and light victories
Pulled like gills to the gulls
From warm polluted holes,
White gulls with otherworldly eyes,
Yet they pluck the lotus for shit
As does Quan Yin herself as well,
Have the choice to see heaven or hell,
Or maybe the blue only knows its own kind,
Learns nothing from all of the lies.
I have poured out as diurnal ritual
The barrels of measurable shit and urine,
Made microadjustments to
The indefensible
Dysfunction
Hoping my time was enough
Of a sacrifice
Dysfunction
Hoping my time was enough
Of a sacrifice
For the pleasure of seeing
Everything break,
Everything die and get taken
Apart,
All rationales slide down an icy crevasse
Where the Self as we pictured it
Can't be said to exist anymore
And nothing of goodness escapes
To the light ...
Everything break,
Everything die and get taken
Apart,
All rationales slide down an icy crevasse
Where the Self as we pictured it
Can't be said to exist anymore
And nothing of goodness escapes
To the light ...
That trickery flickery always throws relief
Onto the shade,
In patterns of steel
Glittering blade
Like Venetian blinds ...
— Is it the light or the dark
That binds us?
Who knows?
The pipes always churn out
The waste with ease
After this many rained-out days.
Like Venetian blinds ...
— Is it the light or the dark
That binds us?
Who knows?
The pipes always churn out
The waste with ease
After this many rained-out days.
