I had a friend who kept a candle in his pocket

he used to touch it when the wind was blowing high,

I guess it made him feel like he could buck the system

and when it flickered out we laid him down to die,

turn on the light,

turn on a million blinding brilliant white incendiary lights,

a beacon in the night,

I'll burn relentlessly until my juice runs dry

I'll construct a rack of tempered beams and trusses

and equip it with a million tiny suns,

I'll install upon the roof of my compartment

and place tinfoil on my floor and on my walls,

then I'll turn on the light.....

and I'll burn like a roman fucking candle,

like a chasm in the night,

for a miniscule duration,

ecstatic immolation,

incorrigible delight





let's gather 'round the carcass of the old deflated beast,

we have seen it through the accolades and rested in it's lea,

syntactic is our elegance, incisive our disease,

the swath endogenous of ourselves will be our quandary,

we've nestled in it's hollow and we've suckled at it's breast,

grandiloquent in attitude, impassioned yet inept,

frivolous gavel our design, ludicrous or threat,

excursive expeditions leave us holding less and less,

so what does it mean?

when we tell ourselves it's only for a while we have been deceived

and it's only for a moment that the treasures of our day

make life easier to complicate,

the treasure thrown away,

I'm so tired of all the fucked up mind

of all the terrorist religions and their bullshit lines,

of all the hand-me-downs from all industrial crimes

and the weeping mothers and those who are led so blind,

from the plastic protests and the hands of time

and the pursuit of mirth and all hating kind