Wednesday, October 31, 2012


I'm busy nose diving
down a path where the wind
is made of glass. I'm burning
my icons and pissing
on their memories.
It's not my choice, my intention.
It's a cerebral dependency
on malicious intelligence.
A dependency for which
I'd chew an iceberg to be rid of.
But still I move
through a lake of brown bags
and thoughts of the past
with no aim and no chance of return.
If socially this is to be called
self destruction,
universally it must be
simple evolution.

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