When I was younger
drugs were something I wanted to do
and as I grew older
drugs became something to do
and as I grew even older
drugs became something I had to do
and now
drugs are something I used to do.

Some things are just meant to be
but they’re also meant to have been.

Reaching out from the feeble space of my world
For something real to come into existence
To burn from the canvas of imagination
Yet immediately entangled in an infinite confinement
Staying forever trapped

We look for authenticity, we crave for creation
Feeling the need to be someone who can be not
While riding the unbridgeable wave of determinism
Still, riding it, we can

So, place your feet with faith
Breathe in all the air you can
Then plunge forward and become

A blinking shooting star
A spear of joy

Life calls you, that's all you need to know

The world was determined
To be where it was that day
And so each time sinned
Was inevitable in that way

The master of puppets
Thus the plot twister
Blows the trumpets
At the evil mister

Who killed a protagonist
Then himself hanged
Thus an antogonist
Inevitably becomes determinist

When he finaly does see
He is not free to be
While the protagonist
Rises up free

Into chaos
The arms of uncertainty

Love should be determined
It shouldn't be a drug

Promises made by diviners: first,
the month of my undoing dissected,
uncertainty excised. Fingers splayed,
the prophet makes a pretty ritual
out of ribcage. Says: any bone
can be an oracle bone, given time.
Unhook the vertebrae, then.
Plate apart the musculature
and there’s fate, that red spool,
that hungry spine. Ask me if I
believe. I believe all prophets
are butchers. The small chime
is her fingers at my glass rib
and not my leaving. Ah, fate,
that tangle of guts, of chyme.

Determine meaning of toxic
probe quantity of goodness required
to cease metabolic function
Give space to inspections
of remaining affect-reserves
Adjust interior humidity
to +/- decency

Console yourself.