i have a crush on a phone
sinking in it as a stone
would sink into a vat of ink
lost in pigment, far from home
longing for its bed of loam
i have a crush on a phone
i'd like to crush this ****** phone
for with a free hand i could find
a way out of this citrus rind
this volatile warming smile
**** i'm doing it again
i have the choice to be alone
but instead i'm on my phone
for want of--**** it nevermind
once again i've lost my mind
i'm crushing on my ******* phone
scuse me while i crush this phone

it's a dizzying impression to see one's own depression
no class or task or master can us for that prepare
that contradictive dissonance, that roguish thought of insolence
rejecting solemn peace of mind and peeling psyche bare
nerves, synapses, signals sent? what **, depression, whence!?
it's to me no mystery, a consequence of sense
a side effect of our accursed proclivity to care
better, then, to not, and give to death concession
the tragedy, the folly, the angst, our depression

arbore libertas, with fruits of life
grows in a loam of blood and strife
watered with fear, blooms of terror
feeding a home constituted of error
all times too cold, all times too hot
perpetual victim of the coup d'etat
beneath comfy shade, the thinkers think
of some ancient tome of a world at a brink
nourished by sap flavored saltpeter
sure of the future tasting so sweeter
blind to the souls lost underfoot
things they're content to turn into soot
watch the world burn in a blaze of inaction
fueled by logs from a cutting contraption
it's under this tree we're all learnt to sit
and savor this odor, demagogical ****
one thing we'll hear of which to be sure
this smell's required, life grows in manure
it sounds like a lie, then again, what's true?
the only concern in a world full of you
there's only a home fed by a tree
fit with a swing, a rope just for me

i taste the spirits in the plant
a blue and warming paradox
soaked in acid, cooled on rocks

i feel the spirits in the starch
heark'ning to the victory march
of a century buried in snow

of the grape, spirits i know
i'm calcified a hue of violet
give my mind to autopilot

i love the spirits in the hops
afloat on bubbles to the tops
plenty left yet somehow scant

succumb to spirits, getting wetter
make your own one all the better
lose yourself in what we make
rejoin them upon your wake

i realize
with terrorists i
sympathize
with the murderers that
we chastise
so try to open up
your masked eyes
and maybe then you'll
recognize
that united we'll
all arise
to triumph over
our past lies
a truth we learned
to surmise
that i won't last
til sunrise
seen just before
my soul dies
in hope one day
you'll realize

is it more accurate to say of humanity today
that our art consists of blood and feces smeared across the page?
yes, more so than any notion which i know
that's all we are and all we will and all we hold as sage

solitude, the only trait which we exude
together in our lonesomeness upon the same big rock
we thrash against it, more or less, the ticking of the clock
oh the folly! all the waste, the hurt, the love, absurdity
it's all we have in haste to make our very own profundity
before the closing of the coffin, burning of our ashes
how i'd prefer to serve my time: adorned with camera flashes
embalmed and set upon a rock, for all my fellow ones to see
and squirm in squeamish joy at all my peeled back dignity
solitude, the only proper attitude
with which we can approach the senseless nature of existence
a mind, a hole in timespace, fleetingly fought resistence
against that voiding encroach, the darkness of persistence
one day i'll greet it as a friend and hope it's in good mood
and meet with all my theories, my end, my solitude