Surrounded by cascading dirt slopes. The only tangible hold is made of ethereal grime. Plumes of earth burst between my fingertips. My eyelids only well up with salt instead of clearing the air- uprooting the cause. Torn and ripped of my bedside manner. Though my bedfellows reside elsewhere. They no longer leave a warm residue. I feel only cold linen- worn cotton. Perhaps I am poor of heart- no change to be had...I beg and yet receive spittle- my own of course. Tracing it's way to the concrete, collecting into a reflection I can't abide. I don't feel sorry for myself anymore- I'm no "rape-child". Quite the contrary: I am the product of "deafening love"*- a mother and father who saw no consequence to their parallel or their separation. Happiness alludes me. I try to find it in my so called peers. But the aforementioned parallels rear ugly heads as if only mirrors resided before them. Causing diamond shaped apparitions showing only multiple sides of the same surface- letting these fools believe in ill-fated multifaceted personalities. Look no further my children. For you are perfection. Click away at meta keyed buttons- creating jealousy, conducting melodious manipulations- always awaiting your 99 cent tones of timeless church bells to ring out- alerting you to the damage done. I'm finished. I know not what to do. There is no crescendo to my generation...other than the silence following this world's imminent destruction- the ultimate "I told you so".
I can't force "art" from my mind or fingertips. Only warning signs. The latest conversation I found validity in consisted of me being incorrect- not because I was wrong but because I didn't share opinion. In the future, bread will be broken upon secret slurs of martyrs' names. All else will warrant death. I can only relate the relays - the electrical pulses sodomizing my grey matter. I fling the cum in your general direction hoping it blinds you as much as it clogs me. Understand this: my vulgarity comes from anger- and not at you of course...no, no, no- not you you sublime being. You alabaster sculpture you. You're perfect. Maybe if you continue believing these theories- the urban gang rape wont hurt as much. The melting faces of hooded thugs can't bludgeon your memories for decades. The smog filled clouds cease to bother when every fiber of being turns to pulsating pain. All blue veins fill with black hate- torrid fissures expanding throughout your self image. You are nothing because you know it now. Now make something of yourself.
*Bear in Heaven - "Deafening Love"