We are dying. Lies make us. I die trying, fly high trying.

Great geese overhead in winter; fly to where? I can’t care, but know they go there, through air. Don’t shit on my hair. I’m stuck. Luck I earned, karma stashed from previous lives, love I got drunk on, and burned.

Collide. I scope a crash for colours. Rainbow wrecks and twisted rigid bones. Amen to the jigsaw in my brain, wipe shrapnel, go home. Here I am, babbling to the only person I love on ten thousand telephones.

I write love letters, sweetest she ever received. Envelope lick drop-in box delivers unfading memories and etchings you can believe. But these days - nobody can digest a megabite, or trace autumn leaves - that just ain't how folks get paid - and whistling? Disappears into the breeze.

Cataclysm! Ms. Rhythm gave me schizoschism, I trap her, keep her prisoned in a prism, ringing elision, illusion of darklife and deadweight confusion, refresh from fullness, sick to death of bullshit underwater nowheres - here, there and everywhere. I know it’s not fair, nothing is and everything is. But I'm so tired I don’t care.

Stuff a sock down my pants and call it country. I sang bluegrass in her kitchen and cracked like humpty dumpty. I was dared to hit a girl once, but anger’s a failure of intelligence; violence is so 20th century, like not voting’s worse than suicide. Governments and the afterlife - we get what we deserve.

Will I bomb you, Osama? What will calm you. The drama. You, on the desert dromedary, your derriere kicked by an ass donkey King Kong Bush still swatting at the consequence of that aerial ambush.

They made a war. Outlet for fate. Pent-up nihilism needs its place. Explode yourself on a bus, try to crush my luscious blush, your self-destruction doesn't wipe the smile from my face. Optimism. Relax. There’s a reason why people masturbate. Or if you’re that desperate for affection - ask your sister on a date. But don’t blow me up: it's my get-home bus, and I don't like being late.

Mass graves. Grave masses. Crusade Christians. Help the homeless and don’t throw stones. I live in a looking glass. I can move anywhere, but I live what I choose – wherever they got sweaty skins on tired bones; wherever they have eyeballs; wherever they got the jigsaw blues.

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