Everything is a wet headache, a Niagara
of impulse and memory, and my generation
has no evil, no great war or turmoil to spawn
action. The crust of age accelerates, expands and
abrogates the crux of creation. This sleight pink frame
shall not remain unprotected; the scrape of a stone,
dare to break a heart, judgment reserved for the feeling.
What is love? Pleasure is fleeting, sharp, and frightening,
so orthodox has fear become. Vacant lots abut
vacant homes, a display of memory that with the
trivial came the extraordinary. "Follow,
follow your heart," they say forty years ago and so
today, but knowledge and fear adhere to our hearts that
here lies hope for the future,
that money bought freedom and work meant fulfillment, that
one could devote himself to pursuing happiness,
but the crust of age accumulates and the body
perverts, deviates as an animal waits to die.
What are you protesting? Our mother, this
bold ambiguity. Do not question.
The faces of relationships pass wooden; passion
is a whore; style, our monster, and the almighty
dollar beat and fellate us – it all boils down to
pointlessness; locomotion becomes an issue as
the crust of age consumes. Lay forever wrinkling where
it doesn't hurt, but is still wet. There is no movement
here and those big sad eyes open wide sometimes to shed a
tear and wait, hopefully, to drown there eventually.