The Untitled Self

Altruistic visions amalgamate with decrepid thought to paint portraits of self and hieroglyphics lost on the thirteenth floor of conciousness. Altered to perfection to misdirect faded shades of perception. Prosthetic convections placed on tables to feed the beast. He may not consume, but the aroma soothes. You can't cover sins with makeup. Minutes lost are blinks and years, but what's gained are fears that burden the being. If you could call it that. Pretentious mockeries dig deep in the scars that we've cut for ourselves. Yet they tell us we're all so happy. Fables. Souls hung in gallows we call a body. Dying minute by minute, the workmanship's shotty. A revolution of the mind finds the minds eye trying to find the blue sky, but ends up blackened with discourse and discouragement.Preoccupy your senses with your deepest discontent to disconnect from the obscene, only to then reconnect with the machine. Vaccines used as an antidote for the shame that bathes the frayed decaying sense of worth is a clean white puppet of the Man that came first. Birth is a trial and some may be found guilty. Life is just your sentence. A paragraph is longer but coincides with lasting existence. Persistence might pay but lingers this instant. Turn on the talk box to drown out reality, but in reality this is your reality. A slug. A worm. A microbe. A manifestation of host and parasite that manifests within the manifesto of life. An empty carapace. AKA the frontal lobe. I'll take my snowglobe world shaken, not stirred. The lot of us can't feel the rot of us that attracts the scavenging others. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, villains, lovers. All coalesce into a sphere of want and need. Possibly the need for a freedom that can't be achieved. Words decreed are just words spoken. Open passages lead to closed minds. Although in a wasteland such as this you might be surprised to find yourself being carved and dished out on platters. Single file lines now. One at a time. If you're lucky you'll get a taste. Not enough to savor, but possibly enough to recognize the flavor. You will never be full. You float on the surface from emaciation of Self, but sink to the bottom with heavy souls. Shotgun currency to break the plaster, to serve your master. We're almost there now, just a little faster. We're almost there now, slow down a bit. Stop moving, quick. Now here's your meal. Lay down, quit. You've done enough. You've seen enough. But you could never quite feel it. Broken into portions by the blades of swordsmen. Black garments to cover blacker hearts. Yet, there's a top side to this tortise shell: YOU fashion your own nouse. YOU decide what's red and what's blue. With YOUR own hands you weave the cobweb that is your life to hang in some dark corner. A fly or two might sustain, but that's all you're allowed. Know your limits, walk boundaries softly. It's constantly costly to love, but free to hate.