"'Lazy' may well be another term for 'efficient,' as so many love to romantically remark, but it nevertheless has a vague connotation of '..drowning in a distorted sense of responsibility, dimension, and progress, with symptoms including a stupefying lack of initiative,' but, yes: 'laziness' is a sort-of pursuit of 'efficiency-'
with no intention or willingness to bear the responsibility of exertion.

A system cannot be said to be efficient
if it bereft of energy by which it might do work, however efficiently.

Put your energy where your mouth is.
It's cool to kick it once it's done,
but, for now: ante up or fold."

They float these pink balloons
Strings hanging down, they
Sway back and forth like
Leaves in the wind.

Weighted down never to reach
Beyond their moment, never to
Fly free, these pink balloons,
Swaying in the wind.

Scuffing  across the floor, neither
gravity keeps them grounded, or
These pink balloons never to
Let this hanging moment soar.

I have many pretty balloons, my
Favorate is pink, pink is the colour
Of flesh, a beautiful tone. One
I like to cut and bleed, as they hang
There slowly strangled floating on air.

What will take them, floating along
Scuffing feet plead for the ground,
But I like to pierce the flesh, like a
Balloon life does deflate slowly
Then gone as if never there.

I have many balloons suspended, some
Stagnant still, while others twitch.
Floating just above life, gliding
Closer to death as they hang upon
String neither here or there.

"It's good to have a schedule, 'cause then you'll have at least pseudo-legitimate excuses not to do things you want to do even less than what's scheduled. It can also be nice to have a regular rhythm in Life other than your heartbeat and breathing, which, if you're like me, go overlooked enough as it is."

"If I need more rhythm in my life, I play drums."

"You fancy yourself a percussionist too, eh?
Well, for a fellow clock, you're pretty **** sharp!
What the hell you talkin' to me for? You got it already."

"Just finish tuning that guitar already. 'Open Z minor,' right?"

"It's 'drop go-****-yourself,' actually. Your mom's favorite."

"Funny, your mom loves it when I bang with my eyes closed."

"Alright, both of you: shut it before I leave both of your moms beggin' for more. After last time, they sure as **** know we bassists go deeper."

"As the frontman and vocalist, all I have to say is that worthy ladies appreciate the guys who are confident and good with their mouths, so y'alls gotta be sure to get in on those backup vocals! Also, before I forget: please ask your moms about my Funkadelic records. When things have gotten a little too freaky, I tend to be in a hurry. Whips, latex, chains, *******, ball-gags, belts, oils, sandpaper, rubbing alcohol, vinyl, blowtorches, candles, wine.. you know how it is: it can be hard to remember everything you leave in the locker at the end of a long day at the gym!"

"Hah, I'm sure. But, like I was saying.. we need to schedule more gigs."

"I already scheduled some more with your m-"

"I know. She told me."

"To dismiss as 'Dark' is to eclipse what complementary Light?"

hollow pointed flowers
litter,
the war torn fields,
watered,
by the blood from human
carcass's

left,
after the battle.
now,
become mulch and food
to toxic soil's greed


the children
play
among the dry, white
bones
building clacking, castles
high
and scavenging the metal petals  and kahki cloth
for with which,
they haggle, for food to buy.

their world of
decrepit decay,
exsists.....
under a cloud of grey
and with only the
memory of parents,
they make their own way...

what once was green
is now brown
and what was was steel
is now rust, upon
the ground.

but not the hollow flowers,
somehow,
they retain their gleam
and they glitter,
like diamonds,
in the harsh daylight.

they, the children,
the keepers of this world,
know not how
to smile or cry.

they live to survive
to them simple things,
like joy and laughter
are myths.

they have no time
to ask why...

but they love,
the little flowers,
that sit upon the sands.
the hollow pointed flowers
that feel right, within small hands.

and the songs
they sing, are murky
as to the prayers
they say,
before bedtime....
just, undefined mantras.
taken from the before.
when the gods,
were advertisements
and everybody suceeded.

everybody was needed,
everybody was blind,
to creed and colour
and the world was
fine and dandy.


and mothers loved
their children,
fathers walked beside.


this, before the sundering
before the parents,
fought and fought
and died.

leaving just dusty bones
in toxic fields
and bullet blossomed
flowers
to mark the loss
of life...
to mark the loss
of living...
to mark the end of
fighting....
to mark the end of
destruction...

after the dying was done