I have learned some things.
That peaceful lunacy is a common default state at home; to
accept online monstrous rage is en vogue,
That a blank page is often just a blank page; to scribble
and soil it is a very human urge,
And terraced quantum doors hide love and loneliness.
To what end are these thoughts?
To suspect there are no certainties at all; but to chase the
same is deliciously pointless,
To burn and tear at midnight’s feral zoom; but immortal only
in those unacknowledged moments,
Tubes fizz and burst, days blazing, pupil-wide intimations.
And what else can there be.
There are as many revelations as there are snowflakes; we
walk in an enervating storm of ice-rash falsity,
There are truths as numerous as grains of fucking sand; we
crush them under our bloated hams and haunches,
Devouring and destroying as only we were born to do.
And what use is it all?
All flesh and aspirations turned inward, atrophying along
with dreams, and a million more ready to join this pointless battle
All the while adding poison of thought, word and deed;
stamping wholesome, handsome filth unto the rotted vestigial echoes
Of the generations failed before, and before, and before.
[Note: this piece was titled by Rusty Shooman, whose previous work is here]
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