Let us just sit together in the bathtub and

wax
philosophical

with our toes
in eachother's *******

The threshold, a kink in the continuum. A static line, 7" thick. An inch a mile, a million high-ways through low-days. Between freezing underpasses, mirrored in ice. Stray dogs passing, paying no mind, for there is none. Dying mice; too white for the whiteness.

Give me a road and I'll follow
across our fallow fields.
At either end, a somewhere an anywhere;
yielding, if anything, a brief love of the vastness of our expanses.
In such terms, humans and roads
are inseparable.

Give me legs and itchy feet, and I will carry this filthy deed.
"To go," for nothing
but the words alone
Like a redneck with his whiskey and his 12-gauge
we rage
full on.

Give me recklessness, give me godlessness, give me symbolitude & contemplacency. Give me thoughtlessness, or better yet, leave me with instinct, and I will carry the rifle for the enigma-insignia
of the Great Nation of Motion.

And I endure
to procure
myself
in two places
at once.

What if the war machine
was a tarnished memory
and the void between
the pillars
Why there is not contentment for the content
but and endless series
of Roman pillars inside celibate convents.
The pillars of the Panthéon are bars in a demented prison
fermented with the stench of a rancid batch
of torrid dreams.

A palace of pain an pleasure,
a hotbox of sin for the devil's leisure.
Leapt to every level of Dante's hell
and up again

No knowledge have I aquired,
but confusion, a quiet
illusion, and I am tired,
oh, so witheringly
tired.

"We are drawn to the concept of escape"
Nietzsche said.

Hello,
my name is so and so
Have you heard of such and such?
"No, not very much."
Well let me tell you...

The sledgehammer
catalyze the caterwaul of lies
Unhinge your mind,
grease it
and rehinge it,
Because; everything is out of balance
A pendulum disturbed by the devil's malice
while he dances
through our glances and drops the knowledge
of how the money you pledged is wedged
in between stacks of paper and salary checks
The blues in the night-light dance with the stamina
of broken dreams. Well, let me tell you of the suffrage
and my lack of knowledge or power–or both–to discern or summon
a strategy for navigating this slanting ship
capsizing with the weight of the world
in the Suez Canal.

The doctrine of a dead man's cackle
enforce the shackle
of the child's ankle
The unswerwing arrow of my intent,
Pegonia arrowhead
plunge into a heart of lead
to find the hidden treasure
x-marks-the-spot
of another bitter man

"For every pledge donor you get
5 children died
in Tibet."

And so will they continue to
What can I do?

You know them. Those twisted facese you pass
in jeering wonder. Speckless shoes that step
over the ugliness with the grace of a gazelle,
ignorant to the trash that floats freely.
     "Everything is okay," you might say,
but you have to keep your head up high,
you chin reaching to the sky
evading the lie of this swinish reality.
Wading through the garbage, a life spent in
such a curious denial
of this rancid year
of our lord.
     Something slides along the pavement outside.
Wailing and blaring, up and down the street,
probably in response to some heinous crime.
Response unit useless
caller, niner STOP
Too much blood STOP
"Personally, sir, I think that in this world,
the only crime–the only real crime–is the crime
of getting caught, over..."FULL STOP

I chew my way through nickles I earn from angry tourists ambivalently tossing percentages into a jar. I've learned that some of the toughest people come from the proletariat. I fear the people that have worked at McDonalds for 20 years. I kneel before the Knights of Mediocrity.

I check my mail and I come back with a fist full of loonies and quarters. Payday. My great big nose reflects back in the copper before I put the coins into my mouth-recepticle. It is barely bearable. It tastes like blood, but is it from the metal or is it the coin cutting my gums? With the sheer yield of my fields was I able to get it down. I wash it down with some OJ.

Of the queerest men and women I have met, most of them were from the same world as I came from (and to which I will inevitably return). The world of the workforce. I am merely ailed by itchy feet and a severe fear of placidity. I work hard. But only if my work is paid in mileage. If every penny spent is a road to anywhere but here.  

A former colleague of mine developed prominent ****** ticks from working as a cashier at a market. The world falls harder on the content, because their yields shield most of the fall. People die both in front of  desks and between steel beams.

Two men sit in silence, playing chess. Suddenly, an argument arises and both parties toss theories of chivalry between one another before one of the men yell,
     "I don't think it's quite that black and white!"

There is a hit and run in my mind
And the police are too preoccupied with their phalluses
To even notice.

A lonely man, befuddled by the blunt object that hit him from behind, fades away into nothing while his crimson blood mixes with the juice of blueberries he had just bought. The pavement turns purple, and for just a split second the scene turns from tragic to comic.

The State of Mind is policed by the principles of democracy. The system is simple: The Cerebellum is the parliament, all my cognitive skills are the representatives, and the body of voters is constituted by whichever arbitrary thoughts that enter my head that day. But in reality my mind is goverened, only by the singularity of chaos. The voters don't know, but the Cerebellum knows. The representatives will never know for sure, but there is a slight tint of discontent, gnawing away, every day, at their thoughts, while they drink their coffee and type endlessly on typewriters, even though computers have been around for a quarter of a century.

You see, chaos is regressive and progressive simoultaneously. Chaos is when time unleashes logic. The future reprecussions of a chaotic event may be necessary, inevitable and perhaps even for the good of humakind and the larger universe, but the passage between vain violence, anarchy, destruction; and the ultimate moral redemption of the event; the moment where we comprehend the possible benevolence of past horrors. Chaos is logic when time is suspended.

Where words flow from the river of the mind like smooth rocks that fit perfectly in their beds, chiseled by the stream for a thousand years.

Where phrases fall from the sky in perfect and coherent mosaics of shadow colours between beams of murderous sunshine.

Where the beauty of a million lilies coalesce into one unbreakable leaf of immense colour and depth.

Where everything that falls, grows or flows cohere in the choir of the great magnet and its whims.

Where verbatim transcriptions of concepts are prevalent
This is where I wish to spend my time.

When the dunes turn to jazz
And the grains dazzle in the moonlight
The scorpio circle mating-dance
No straight paths
For a desert snake
No chance for a fragile man.

No refuge for the Citizens of Eden
Newton's hand would deter The Fall
Intercept gravity's apple
And the ceilings of the world
Would be far lower.

The earth is the ocean oasis
Panoramic, oceanic, vast
The desert dunes of space expands
The wood bends; the paper folds;
Objects collide; the tempest storms
And whips the sand.

The dunes turn to jazz
The Mystic Rose and the Magnolias dance
The desert hand expands, expands, expands
Raw power.

The Dunes Turn to Jazz
And the humans cower.

Ion, break away from the atom
Ms. Tharpe breaks away from the piano
And goes on to the guitar
She sings in perfect tenor
Of her journey to the sky

Wax wings, willing to thaw
Just to draw a parallel
Between above and below
No paradise; just a scorching sun
With Icarus she fell to earth
Burning with the yearning
To be free.

In an ocean cave
Dying, merely by falling/Flying, merely by falling
Finding, merely by calling
For the Lord
Be it 'Jesus,'
or someone else

My mind is a bull-fight, semi manifested. Half-realized and halfway through a lingering emotion, a hesitant atmospheric disturbance. The stadium is empty, but the perspiration of thousands of people still float. The enthusiastic screams craving blood, honour, courage; the craving for a childish narrative in which the bull represents evil, and the Matador represents the rebellious hero. The crowd knows such things don't exist. What they do know, however; is that somewhere between the

tête-à-tête

of the bull and the matador, exists a universality of understanding. An understanding that the crowd has defiantly given up on. So they do what we all do: They grasp at straws. But the crowd is not really there. And neither is the Matador, and neither are his assistants. There is only the smear of their bright, bourgeois garments dancing with exuberant flamboyance across the walls, in an obscure, enigmatic disobedience to black-line-confinement. The same distortion of form that occurs through the lens of a powerful drug; or the force of blunt pain.

The bull is adept with his horns, and their propulsion is fuelled by bovine testosterone. But his horns turn to papier-mâché, and the rage loses its direction, like when you try to escape some pursuer inside a nightmare.

And then: Revelation.

The amphitheatre is empty, there is no Matador, no enemy, no good, evil, no trouble or tranquility;
Only
Silence
Impotence

A confused bull, alone in it's thoughts, infinitely circling an empty arena, stabbing at a phantom.

Linking the ritual chronology of the past few days in accordance with 'The Boy's' 21st birthday. No longer a boy, but not quite a man, but unsure if that was the ambition at all. Linking the rites of spring with the rites of summer, endless summer, indian summer, endless ******, no longer sure, were we ever, and did we ever want to be?

The seasonal threshold coupling the brutality of summer freedom. All those years on the bench in systemic education, waiting, counting the days until the breakout of summer, the breakout of the nation-wide epidemic of drips of sweat rolling down foreheads, cars racing up and down the highway going anywhere but home, if only for a few minuscule hours of freedom. Not really knowing what to do; the only certain knowledge; that doing anything is better than doing something, whatever that means.

Proud proletarian patriot, hating with every inch the structure and the scaffold, the zephyr swishing and swooshing over the surface of the storefront, while the air condition whirrs away, in a little town on a little island in a massive inlet in a vast sea, tossing and twisting, raging and blistering with the toils of work, throwing rhetorical fists in the air like-you-just-don't-care, with drops of Digital Ink. –with that strange symbiotic disharmony that emits from the boy's fingers, fuelled with every every-day stimulant, caffeine, nicotine, THC; Trembling Hallucinogenic Creation. The ongoing tremble of uncertain fingers, searching for a certain certainty he knows he'll never see.

And therein lies the tragedy
But also the beauty.

Sister Rosetta Tharpe licks her wounds and oils her cords, a casual observation to start things off, to jump-start the mind with the cables that undoubtedly fuelled Ms. Tharpe's canon, or cannon if that works in context. Just something, anything, to jolt the good old stream-of-consciousness into action, for my mind to finally get the guts to 'inspect' that "empty" rathole where the guns of the 'enemy' are waiting in vain, my mind thinking (by itself) that if I wait long enough I can starve them out. But my mental adversaries are cunning and adept, able to go without food for days, weeks, months, eating moths, worms, rats, and slitting the snakes open to drain their juices. The snakes, the snakes, the snakes, my ultimate fear; the snake around my neck. Hung on the scaffold, standing ovation. Maybe I can burn them out..?

There we go, I writhed you loose, you ******.

I click a four-count in my silent mind, and I crawl in, like the good soldier I am, thinking all the time that I should have read Manual of the Warrior of Light by Paulo Coelho; without a doubt, judging by the title alone, it would have done me good. The last click of the four-count is the cocking of the hammer on my tool, be it a torch or a pistol; proxy war gunslinger, existential riot. Nothing to lose, and nothing to gain, ******* long nights in the hole, nothing to hope for once I escape, but another batch of darkness, and another painted face, asking "Are you okay?" ME answering in my male hangup "Why wouldn't I be?"

Now onto the metafiction cliché:
You can always escape, but you can never hide, like the cheddar cheese villain in just about every movie known. And never were it more true. Contemptuous nature can lie benign in the brain, prostate, or breast for a long time before it becomes malignant; and escape is always an option to prolong the inevitable. But I come from a people of brooders, an own ethnicity in its entirety devoted to judgement and yuppieism. There we go; another red-dot-underline to signify the royal introduction of another previously foreign '-ism.' Standing on the conveyor belt, side by side in a circle **** of prejudicial rhetoric: "Everyone are so unpleasant and gross," comic-book thought-bubbles in every direction, through every head, like malicious rays from the omnipotent sun of groundless hatred.

No sun for the land of the brooders.
No real sun.
But it will still fry your skin.
4th degree burns.

Return of a friend;
Return of a fiend.
Might be both, and it might be neither, but it doesn't matter, as all eyes are fixed on their feet, and the few inches of pavement in front to avoid any collision.

All tools are ******* symbols in the eyes of the disillusioned.
The mountains are phalli, the valleys and coves, vulvae.
Cross country crotch rocket, crevasse stretching, rough landscape.
All interconnected, like the bluffs on the beaches, with holes right through.

Ismism
Feminism?
Masculinism?
*Equalism!

We slip across the border, anonymous and unnoticed, just another tin can of rank sardines. The border patrol paid us little mind. Der Bünden Europa is not like America. This is the land where borders still exist merely on the map. An abstraction. An abstraction, rightly belonging in the realm of the abstract. No all out profiling, no pandering or demeaning behaviour, just a slip. A slip, a slip, the thin veneer, that we all cross. Who could tell? I put my head through the window, and with the punch of one strong breeze passing, we rage full on into Deutschland.

Ten Koruna rooms,
****** doused in red light. Purple, then blue.
Sickness and health dancing
In the street to the thumping bebop of the night
Veins and heads filled to the brink with:
Crank,
smack,
****,
goofballs,
Neon lights.
The bad ***** is optional.
The city twists and bends in the chrysalis night, uncoiling.
Azure skies of deep summer, polluted
Only by the glare of candles
In living souls on slow pavement.
They burn, burn, burn, bury their heads
In thrills and friends.
They burn until there is nothing left,
But a white speck of off white wax sizzling
Away in the darkness.

My bed is a mass grave
My toilet is a mass grave
My kitchen sink is a mass grave
Stretched out in lines of chrysalis coke, choking the evanescent life that could have been. Straight into the empty Coca Cola can you go. A litany of atrocity in every bed, futon, desks, truck stop bathroom, camera lens, attempting to capture the genocide on film.
Alas, the lens is Covered with white, bioluminescent death.
Choking the unborn in the ****** drain.
Coffee mug refill, for but a single dime,
sweaty palms connected to strained veins on wrists,
connected to thrusting elbows.
Firing wrist rocket, V2, V1, buzz bomb.
Unsuspecting future citizens, blocks of thousands at a time.
Tadpoles, rotting in murky basement suits the world over.
The war is on.
Auschwitz, Dachau, Sachsenhausen.
Arbeit Macht Frei.
Swim for dear life

Stuck around in the board room meeting, ravenous and blissful, chugging down on freshly laid piles of rhetorical excrement, modes lingering in the air like Chernobyl.
Soon we will either have to evacuate
Or we will grow malicious twins on our shoulders
Two faced
Mind duality
Mode dynamic
Facetious solitude, always side by side with the proverbial circle ****
Of terminology, "lest ye be teriminated." White lies, loving, adoring, detrimental white lies.
Dead mythology
Dead language
Can you handle the live ones?
*Symbolitude

When I am calm
I am a storm
When I am a storm
I am calm

The calm
Before the storm.

Electric static buzzing in attentive ears, wondering how and why you ended up where you did. Stale smoke filling the air like the compressor in a carburetor.
Direct injection.
Vicious speeds.
Catatonic struggle.
The lisp of an old hippie, tracing his tracks in a wheel-legged fashion, up and down the streets of Seattle, looking for the kicks that previous nights were unable to provide. Supply and demand for bottom up approaches.
Roaches scattered in the living room. Some dead, some still glowing in the dimness. Empty cans of Campbell lint excessive consumption. The prevalent motif of the middle class. Stars and stripes hung in the window pain, above the static placidity.
Seattle stars
No such thing
I guess it must be raining there forever.

We are born into an invisible grid, each and every one of us Intersubjective, but never intertwined.
What does it feel like to be a woman?
What does it feel like to be a man?
What does it feel like to be?
What does it feel like to be in another grid?
Deathly silence, a metaphysical barrier.
You may stare into foreign eyes and drive the probe of your celestial self into the deepest flora of "the other."
You may explore the ground beneath "the other's" feet
Until eternal oblivion sweeps you away.
But you will be none the wiser
You and I will never comprehend the inner clockworks, the intellectual mechanisms, the factory of the mind.
Even if the black ribbons of smoke from cement chimneys continue to rise,
Even if the mechanism continues to churn,
Even if the clockwork continues to tick,
Until the suspension of time,
You will be alone with yourself
And I will
–In all the glory of human futility–
Keep on searching.

T.S. Eliot might say “Dare disturb the universe.”
I say “What the ****. **** **** up.”

I am the lone insurgent
Walking through the streets
of my own mind.
My mind
Is a totalitarian state.

I am the lone assassin
Of the members of parliament,
Remember, in my own mind.

I am ratted out
By the shrill shrieks
Of an old lady on the tram.

I walk home from endless meetings
With myself, where him
And me plot our rebellion
Sparking the ember, remember;
In my own mind.

The Secret Police awaits
Probably in my living room
Waiting for me to turn on the lights
Revealing the glint of silver nozzles
Mere millimeters from my my head.

The warrant proclaims:
"Conspiracy and ******"
I may be lone, but my hand
Wields just vindication.

I may be lone,
But as I am executed
There is still me
And another will always
Follow

Striking the ember, remember;
In my own mind.

For every second
Of every minute
Of every hour
Of every day
We are in a constant state of dying.
The same way
For every second the sun
Spends across the sky
It is setting.

Silence...







Silence...






There are no explosions in space.
There is only expenditure.

Do we ride the rolling crest of towering waves
Or do we save ourselves the tears?
I say: Give me a sturdy raft
And I will ride.
Give me an anchor
For the windstill days
In between.

Still on the air, racing through hyperspace. Racing toward the ultimate, dashing for the übermensch within, the perfect human being, outliving the greasy machinery of our collective existential crises. Trudging down the proverbial road in swinish runs
back                                                          and                                                          forth
Collecting the critical fragments of out minds from the bowels of life's desert, only to find that they have gotten perverted with the rank rot of maggots, festering, crawling through the remains that were left from our conception and subsequent birth, poorly mummified.
But alas, too many millenniums have past.
Too many millenniums.
Too many.

As we search between the cacti, avoiding the venomous bite of the rattlesnake, battling the heat, our wristlet watches tick.
Tick, tick, tick away with the unfair certainty that the watch will keep ticking through the arbitration of time.
Through the arbitration of the flexible human condition, surrounded by the deafening stasis of the world.
The deafening tick, mocking our decay, celebrating its own infinity.

Chew the water, and don't breathe the air
You weave Apocalypse in your loom
You paint Armageddon on your easel
Black watercolour
Made from human ash
Bombing in the microwave
The embers will die, and the winds will cease
Like the fingernails of a corpse
Trudge into malevolent oblivion
Convinced by the impotent fallacy of happiness;
Generation Nuclear Apathy
Generation Destiny Liquidation
...And the minute counter ticks away...
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock

Eliot was wrong
This is how the world ends
This is how the world ends
This is how the world ends
Not with a whimper
But a bang.

I am frustration and doubt
Could you ever live without
Me?

He's a rat in a cage
Strolling down his lonesome trails
around the grounds.
His knees are shaky and he's working minimum wage.
He tries to unlock the door to the gymnasium,
but his fragile hands can't still the keys.
Every day he rode his bike to work
And his grey appearance would turn sour in the cold morning wind.

Every day at 9 am, he would take a deep breath, and upon exhaling, he would raise the flag on the grounds square.
It was a ragged, pale old flag stained with the tears of time and his years at the gates.

He would sit in the afternoon sun, after the sound of the bells and all the kids were gone. In his dark blue jumpsuit, unable to remember how he felt before. When he was the one on the grounds, climbing the pine trees.

I want something to drown out the thoughts in my head
But I don't want to go back to bed

I'm falling out for hours at a time.
When will the sun shine?

And my thoughts drown in noise
but I still miss your voice.

I propose every pre-existing value to myself, and I embody it.
I surge every thought towards it, I commit every diasporic cell to it.
I cradle, and I brood and dwell on it for years, until I can find no other reality to contest it.
I become narrow and hollow. I hiss at every attempt to eclipse my flaring sun of reality.
I become The Bitter Man. I will love nothing more than to project my bitterness unto others until I am alone; Manifest Destiny.
Until I fully epitomize the number 1, I will not relent.
I will churn myself into powder over thousands of miles of burnt asphalt and sips of coffee until I sit beneath chrysalis skies, in gravel ditches not inspired to even look up.
Sit up, sight & repeat.
I will continue on this wheel of values until every value is impotent
*And total freedom will ensue.

Convinced rationality keeps us secure
What we fail to realize
Is that not only is rationality subjective
But so is security.

Vertical zig-zag, eyes rustling, traveling upward, levitating to the ceiling.
The dream catcher does her no good. No dreams are intercepted, no dreams are recollected and assembled, forever lost in the ether. No making sense of the fragments of her ailed mind. "I wish I had something to drown my thoughts in," she thinks. She remembers saying something like "**** this endless, dragging, churning night," lingering on every syllable, as if waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens. As always.
But there is a faint sound, the sound of a siren, wailing up and down her street outside. Her pupils expand, like the tide on the shore
Suddenly the ringing voice of a mouth long gone snuffs away beside her, and the last piece of someone left the room at that very moment.

Was there a point to this story?
Maybe?
Probably not.

The summer sun rose at 3 am. By then we had already hightailed out of Stockholm, en route south. The purple horizon slowly lifted the veil of darkness and the motion of the van returned to its former realm of concrete movement as we rocked along the long continental avenue. The sun gleamed through open windows onto my arms and legs, making the hairs on my neck stand at attention and awe of white light fissioning into a nebula of vivid color in motion, occupying the entirety of my vision. It was as if, for a brief moment, I had forgotten past failures and obstacles. Was it because of some arbitrary sense of perseverance and skill, or was it a mere karmic turn? Who could tell(?) The radio crackles and fades just before I turn it off. Heller leans forward to tamper with the switches on the radio to find a station. I slapped his hand in spite and I don’t know why it did it. Heller laughs it off and continued to make fun of South-state Americans and juggalos.
- “‘The juggalos made me the ******* I am today,’ ya, that’s pretty evident, you fat drugged up loser. You should should go **** your sister’s purdy mouth,” Mackay laughs wholeheartedly. Andrew leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder.
- “Hey, man. Are you alright? You look a tad pale.” Andrew shifts his facade to slight sarcasm, like he always would to veil his genuine care.
- “Yeah, I’m fine. Haven’t really eaten anything, and the coffee is wearing off.”
- “Do you wanna put something on the tape-deck? Let’s pick one you’re familiar with, so that you can sing along to keep your head up. These slobs won’t be helping you, trust me. They’ll be sleeping in good conscience in a few minutes.”
- “Yeah, cat, that’s not such a bad idea. Put on some Jason Molina. It’s not exactly upbeat, but I know every ****** depressed word.”
I hum and sing along with Emilio, Devin and Mackay as the rest slept away the sorrows of folly and deprivation. We had finally made our way out of Sweden, crossing the immense Oresund Bridge, towering over us with cables running up and down, thicker than our waists. The fog lay over Copenhagen Bay, as the sun peeks over it like Kilroy writing his mark on the horizon wall. 8 kilometers across, connecting the fragmented Scandinavian continent, suspended 60 meters above the malicious Skagen Sea, writhing, twisting and smashing away in the stiff morning wind. Walk along the suspension on a wire, not caring either way if you fall or remain in your shoes. We had already leapt away from the strange comfort of our apartments, shrouded in exhaust, hardship and simplicity of mind, to get a feel of the real world, a world that robs you at knife point, stabs you and leaves you to bleed away in beautiful chrysalis alleys, with the stars glinting away in your vidi, not able to care one bit. Leaving the pots and pans ***** in the sink at home, leaving late night parties, static beds, self consumption, bitterness and white knuckles, we found ourselves on a frontier. A lackluster frontier by ancient standards, but complacency being the dominant dogma of modern day life, a frontier nonetheless. We are the riders of high waves, and rogues on the dusty trails, for thousands of miles, until time suspends itself, and we lose grip. We may not have revolvers or boats, but our van is our weapon. And we are going to use it. The bridge descends into the flatlands of Denmark, where the highest point is a lump of lawn and the people are friendly and clever. A few friends of ours had told us tour stories from bands that were, about a concert being held in a glass octagon cube in the middle of a desolate plain, and the place was packed with young sophistos and the remaining cultural aristocracy of Denmark. Too bad we ain’t stoppin’.
The carnival in my head pushes into high gear with song and magic marker signs, spinning around in circles through streets filled with people screaming at the top of their lungs. I listen to the mechanism churning away, greased by coffee, in the scorching noon Apollonian torture.

I long, like you long for a place to rest my head
You long, like I long for a warm silky bed
I long, like you long for the lights to finally dim
And you know, like I know I do not want to float
I would rather swim

And I know, like you know
I long, like you long

I am tired, like you are tired of the anomie
And I am scared, like you're scared
Of disenfranchise and insanity
I drown, like you drown in a hidden river in the woods
And I frown, like you frown
At how our methods have failed us

I wait, like you wait
And I hate, like you hate
And I regret, like you regret

Like a wildfire in dry hills
Like an animal scratching its cage
Like an exploding light bulb
I run, like you run.

Perpetual light from six magnificent suns
Orbiting in choreographed chariots across the sky
Stars were unheard of; a mere myth of cultist conception
The million mile glint was nothing but a two thousand year-old legend
Human minds, not accustomed to darkness,
Found the walls closing in on them.

As the last rays of sun were eclipsed
A crimson and black border closed in
The last laser ray was snuffed
By the turmoil of darkness
A slate freckled by heavenly deities
Covered the sky.

Mankind went mad at the incredible gaze
and civilization as they knew it crumbled.

Caravans carefully cross empty mesquite desert
between howls from creatures too small to produce them.
There is a slight bump and the convoy tips.
Tips, tips, tips, like snapping fingers, tipping over cauldrons filled with molten magma. They laugh a maniacal laughter as they slip through millenniums of sand, counter intuitively freezing.
Long gone Pharaohs, oil drums and abandoned spare tires.
Once was lost, but now I've found.

Set sail on the winds and whims of vindication
A clockwork orange of human nature
Algorithmic math may apply
Born from anger and rage
Vindicated by revenge
Burn and burn again.
Burn until there is nothing left but a speck of off-white wax in the night