"inorganic" poems
On whether technology has influenced the seeming rise in mental health issues: The concept of technology as separate than Nature is impossible to pin down, but to say that a lifetime of social pressures, advertising, television, and processed and genetically altered foodstuffs would not affect what the brain is used to, and what is was designed to do, is a non sequitur. Certainly an entirely separate set of influences also had negative consequences in the brains' of pre-man, but these were not of his own making, as he still lived in an organic environment, and therefore wasn't a part of the "feedback loop" we have going on with humans becoming the products of a man-made environment (one of the only things that sets us apart from most the animal kingdom). Either way, whatever you're doing you're getting better at it, so with the increase in time spent on the web and watching TV we are increasingly better at watching other people - being passive, non-accountable, constantly comparative and self-obsessed, impotent in light of the mass of information constantly flooding towards you - which the brain was not originally intended for. This seems obvious. So the fact that some people have things like crippling anxiety and OCD, or develop anti-social disorders and the like, seems like a logical result produced by a system (the brain) presented with new and inorganic conditions. On top of that, being a non-douche is naturally and evolutionarily based because it increases the likelihood that others will want to chilll'n'stuff and help you when you need it, but when transposed onto a crowded, fast-paced modernity it twists into something like flattery and competition to appear the most altruistic.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 11:45 AM UTC
I sat by the window and gazed out
at the rain falling down
in torrents and sheets.
The night was black as ink, save the stars;
barely visible behind thick storm clouds,
pinpricks of silver in the ebony scape,
as the rain continued to fall.
I thought of you, of the deliberation in your face
etched into every feature a painful, wavering resolve.
The decision before you:
two fates, the ending, or the prolonging of the time before the terminal predetermined.
I grieved as I remembered the pain in your eyes.
I know you too well. I have seen too much of you
for you to hide this from me. I broke
-a silent cry of realization, collapsing my furrowed brow into a contorted countenance
as I realized that you were gone
not just for now, but for good.
And so there I sat that night,
after I removed the gold chain you rested around my neck
after I scrubbed away the makeup
after I traded my lipsticked smile for a mourning countenance
-I sat, alone in the dark, and gazed out the window into the rain.
I wondered where things had gone wrong.
And so, May showers
drove away April's flowers.
It was all I could do to cry quietly,
face soaked with the saline of sadness
that dripped now on my chest.
Now, I sit again at the window
and the same song plays that had consoled me before
'you'll feel better when you wake up'
And I did.
The sadness stayed safely at the bay
while I tried to channel it again
But this time it wasn't the same.
Though I duplicated the mood down to the clothes I wore,
the heartache was no longer fresh
and my face remained dry.
Sure, I felt sad. But it was not from you.
It was not from a heartbreak or a brokenness.
It was inorganic sadness, brought on by my own need for closure,
the thirst for a goodbye that burned my throat in agony and sorrow
that my parched lips would never find.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
Nothingness.
Imagine nothingness.
That nothingness which is nothing of the nothingness we are all familiar with:
Not that nothingness which is nothing but empty space and time
Like when you open an empty room.
No.
That nothingness where nothing truly exists:
Not space,
Not even time.
A singular point.
Imagine a singular point.
The ultimate singular point that contains all possible points
In the development of the universe
Come out and expand
From the birthing of time, the instance of The Big Bang,
(Which by the way is not a large explosion, as the words imply, but a silent rapid expansion)
Pushing the envelope
Where nothingness begins.
Chance.
Imagine chance.
The random occurrence of events:
Of fundamental particles colliding and uniting
Or annihilating each other,
Giving rise to protons, neutrons and electrons;
Giving rise to the periodic table,
To compounds, both organic and inorganic,
To macromolecules.
Billions of years.
Imagine billions of years
Gone by,
And billions of galaxies filling the sky:
Stars and quasars and pulsars
Planets and comets and meteors
***** nilly hurtling through
Dark matter and ever expanding space,
Yet inanimate still
,
A single cell.
Imagine a single cell
Form inexplicably so,
In a staggeringly highly improbable way
As carbon molecules combine,
Start to throb and pulsate:
Chance bringing forth life
In a barren and otherwise
Lifeless universe.
Consciousness
Imagine consciousness
Purposive, willful, deliberate
Feelings
Imagine feelings
Love, compassion, hatred
Imagine all in a universe that came out of itself from nothingness.
It is hard, of course,
For after all, we are creatures of somethingness!
But at this point
You must have seen the Point
Of all the ramblings and turns in the trajectory of my thought
Tracing the evolutionary course of the universe
From nothingness and that singular point
That without God
All things are
After all
Pointless!
.
And so,
Let us not deplore, as a great poet once did,
That this world “so various, so beautiful, so new
Hath no joy, nor love, nor light
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain…”
For what else should we expect
Of a cold, unfeeling universe?
What?
Give us some Novocain?
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
Sarin –
An organic molecule
Used for inorganic purposes
Showering civilians
Effectively icing their insides
Contorting the human form into forced frozen sculptures
Acting as if torture was an art of the highest caliber
An acquired taste reserved for society’s finest
And this was the Michelangelo masterpiece.
Atropine –
The organic antidote,
Shoot up the stimulant to hurdle your paralysis,
Relax the respiratory muscles caught in your throat,
Your eyes team with tears because you’re allowed to melt,
Your eyes team with tears out of profound shock,
Your eyes team with tears because humans forgot humanity.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
a perfect, newly unveiled horizon line
ancient and promising
yet reborn as a newborn
to my industrialized eyes.
I haven’t heard sirens in days.
still, there is the hustle and bustle
of movement everywhere,
but not by people
nor Porsches and Escalades
and their infiltrating thick smog.
no inane chatter
and fake oohing and aahing
over Louis’ and who saw who.
no
here the possessions move
the so-called inorganic
the buildings, doors, and gates
yearning to be free
swaying, creaking
their tiny reins of confinement
too much to bear
for their free spirits.
taking their cue
from trees, plants, vines, leaves
which are overgrowing fences
and clambering over walls
a massive riotous uprising at a glacier-pace
to triumph over the bipeds
imagine the horror of the flora
at a sudden interment to La-La-Land
the hopelessness and oppression
at being trimmed twice a week
mutilated and then slaughtered.
no
they are the secret underground rulers
stubbornly proud but humble tyrants
mercifully loving their lowly subjects
feeling sorry for us
we who have been forced into
this unnatural industrial order
not their beautiful chaos.
and yet...
they lie in wait
patiently, silently
anticipating the day
when we throw up our arms in exasperation and relief
and acquiesce to their dominion
a return to times before times.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 1:33 PM UTC
frantic antics rewire my brain,
almost as if it were never a brain at all—
circuits and switches and copper thread,
my computerized cerebellum, my inorganic head,
as biology becomes machine.
what powers my body,
this metallic monstrosity?
there is no plug, no battery—
only the cogs and gears of a watchmaker's fever dream
and sheer, dumb luck.
because, while they stood around
and waited idly for my parts to rust,
i was killing time in a vacuum,
ignoring the earnest embraces of air and rain.
and thus, here i rest,
with the sound of my own meek ticking
thrumming against these pink asylum walls
but because i stayed awake to tell the tale,
and to rub their sordid noses in the dirt,
i suppose my isolation was worth it.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
Snowflakes slowly fall and
disappear into the ground.
Frozen flakes disappearing
into the snow,
returning to the drift.
Opaque light glimmers on the surface
I wonder if my face has remained
the same, fake smiles all around
plastic happiness built on
plastic dreams.
I moulded myself to being the wife
a puppet on a string, a thing to own
Vile vinyl, fake female
toxic, neurotic, inorganic
credit card lifestyle.
The snowflake has reminded me
of a purer time, a kinder, softer time
Snowflakes are unique
I am unique not
Plastique
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
A bubble.
Form without void,
the time before time,
absolute inertia,
total resolution,
perfect harmony,
the bubble forming,
expanding,
like an explosion,
displacing,
creating,
The Birthing
of galaxies and stars,
planets in formation,
the universe
unfolding,
meteors crashing
into the atmosphere primitive,
amino acids
forming,
evolving inorganic
to organic,
microbes becoming
multi-cellular
--the race is on,
to and from
fishes,
amphibians,
reptiles,
birds,
animals,
primates
man,
consciousness and self-consciousness,
born and dying,
nothing meaning everything
time
and time again.
Awareness began,
both
with a bang
and a newborn baby's
cry.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 8:23 AM UTC
She is the calmness of night in the burning sunlight
The rain falling from clouds that can't hold water
Salt of the ocean, stone pulled from wet earth,
after the downpour.
He is grass growing from broken ground in the field
The cedar tree pushing its limbs towards sunshine
Clear cold water, cascading down pitted limestone
walls, eroding the face.
Their love is the world, from which all life springs
The beating drum of nature & instinct, intertwined
Inorganic love, brittle as cast iron, rusting itself
away.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 4:59 AM UTC
Its something about that
crack
of the morning
solitude
Becoming one alongside the
energy
conveyed upon every full, comforting gust of
wind
with every frigid grain of sand
collected
in the burrows between your
toes
How the proverbial crash and sizzle out of an alkaline
wave
can intimately caress ones depth of
recollection
so swift and flirtatious,
passionate.
Reflecting the honest
actuality
Honorable substandard grotesque
indifferent
Reminding us that we can
procure
tranquility within
pandemonium
perfection in chaos and
inadequacy
an erie absence of inorganic
resonance
in an alone, but not lonely repose,
comfort
pending that
crack
of the morning
solitude.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
I’m the sickness,
the grotesque singularity that envelopes and gropes that sick nectar.
The sickly substance drains so subtle upon the cut edge of lips
and the pillar draw strings stitched and bound between cardiac flesh.
I’ll cleave,
cut and seethe,
suckle upon the sin I glower as I twine
and tug at those piano puppet strings caught in twain with every heart beat,
just trigger happy nerves spackled in misunderstood concept called love and impulse.
Pluck the collar cuff at your guttural sing and sentence,
those ballots fluttering from between pearl teeth,
I’m stealing those breathing gasps and loving longings;
they’re all just flecks and fragments of lackluster human baggage,
just mannequins treading sluggish,
fractured splinter frame and hinge fickle.
I’m the socio experiment,
the fiendish distaste of a chimera,
the zealous of corrupted cold hearted,
faux feeling skin wearing thing.
Just a copulation of electrical splatter and liquid tissue,
inorganic animal,
snapping jaw and glass shard fangs.
I’ll rile and reeve between the click and snap of your heart beat,
coddle the smoke of prey’s scent,
I’ll parasite the life blood that courses and holds beneath your emotional connect.
My cancer’s a slaughter fed consolation,
ever feasting malignant circumstance,
it rallies a thousand eyes,
irises blood thick,
fragments my moral conscience with teeth riddled limbs,
claws that chew and tear.
A multi-armed fiend,
segmented soulless and black tainted blood lost long ago,
all that remains ***** is the tissue wearing skeleton I claim domain,
fragmenting the soul into steel shards,
all’s just razor edge mechanical once the human feel falls to ash amongst the clutter of bone.
You’ll find the soulless circuit board in the gulf of your cancerous conscience,
as the human corrupts to cancer
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
Before he was here
He would have said, "bereft of feeling,"
Now he says TBI
Before he was here,
Overwatch was a game.
Now it keeps him and others alive
Before he was here
He was a conscientious vegan.
Now he's an omnivore,
Devouring vacuum sealed inorganic meat byproducts.
With vigor
Before he was here
Musty was the damp basement smell-- endearing, familiar
Now it's the infection smell -- nauseating, familiar
Before he was here,
There was good and evil,
Now there are only shades of evil
Before he was here
She was there,
Always.
Now she is gone,
Forever.
Before he was here
Death was distant, clinical
Now it's cloying, visceral
He doesn't know if he'll be able
To return to the time before here
He doubts it.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
.while some people hijack planes and fly them into the anti-thesis of the Jenga game, others hijack things more... metaphysical... like language... oh... over 20 years in England... there was that French girl, the Australian girl, the Spanish girl, the Bulgarian, the African lass, the Russian... and count my stars lucky.... no English girl.
in terms of how much **** is
a racial slur...
is it the syllable count?
should i ask an Afghan?
**** pure laziness...
so not the prefix...
how about the suffix,
i.e. -stani? Stanley...
auburn Stanley...
never mind,
apparently nothing short of
a sense of humor outside
being on the receiving end
of: identifiable vermin...
oh, right...
identity politics...
i'm a mongrel,
a hybrid...
really...
i don't exactly know what this
tongue is doing in
this body...
inorganic English...
acquired -
psyche mongrel...
to your suspicion of half caste;
because i was going to
feel obliged to feel subordinate
to a former colonial
subject on the basis
that... what?
what, exactly?
RAF RAF RAF...
last time i checked.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
Rotunda of doors
Select an arbitrary gateway
Rotate a frigid bronze **** and dislodge
Gaze into an opaque, stone encircled realm
Proceed through the division
Inhale damp, stale earth
Hesitate in a moment of hair-raising atmosphere
Ignore and tread slow
Ignore the echo of the sole warmth emanating in rapid succession from within
Ignore the nagging to turn back
Do so anyways
Realize pupils dilate when the entrance is not visible
Debate possibilities
Feel pointless muscle movement pulling white eyes for stimulus
Exhale tension melting air
Whine and tread against small stalagmites
Extend palm forward and to the side
Grasp for sight
Grab nothing
Constrict throat down
Acknowledge and accept the situation
Continue onward
Stumble against a solid
Release pain
Trace the direction of hopelessness
Follow with purposeful motions
Brush against another impediment
Successfully avoid
Allow air to flow against dry tongue
Taste lifelessness and potential
Release resolution and determination
Gain momentum
Allow ears to beg for rays of sun
Decide resiliency
Pant and expend time
Sense vision assimilating
Investigate the environment
Crouch and take in the floor
Gasp and whimper
Behold bones
Three sixty and engage all faculties
Cower as truth speaks: labyrinth.
Lift chin and only stone above.
And collapse, collapse onto knees in dramatic fashion
With back arched over, hands grasping and pulling at hair
Fight against reality.
Terror eviscerates.
Submit on to the parasitic solid inorganic void.
Become more bones.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
I see the apparitions
of a million mourning
people
standing here
amongst hundred year old graves
and hundred year old trees
they walk slowly
tears dropping
without ever hitting
the ground
one by one
flowers of every color
are put on grave
after grave
till this bleak
and dusty
graveyard
turns into a beautiful
arrangement of ornamental
and inorganic reminders
as each grave adds to the garden
of paper flowers each ghostly figure
of some mourner past disappears as
in a puff of smoke until all of them
have evaporated into the air and I am
left alone in a dusty graveyard adorned
only with fake blooms and overgrown
weeds
the sun beats down hot on my head
and I sweat as the sun comes level
with my eyes
a little girl toddles up to me
pointing at the petals adorning
a near-by grave
she asks
“are those paper flowers?”
I say yes
and comment
on the beautiful
day
“yes”
she says
“it’s a good day for paper flowers”
and I sat there
silent
watching the sun
set
on a beautiful
place such as
this
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 6:02 AM UTC
concrete speed
white dash dash dash dash dash
signs read Jesus John 3:3
160 miles to cincinati
148 miles to cincinatti 150 miles to cincinatti
dash dash dash concrete concrete
I have lost my creativity the highway
has ****** it from me
i see only sterile ruins of what was once great and beautiful
but is now trash on the side of the road
void of spirit or character
Where am I? Who am I? What am I? What have we become? Why have we made life into such an inorganic jungle of cold fear desperation hollowness? Why have we destroyed what we were given and created a jail?
A mental physical jail where we have all become strangers. We are foreigners in our own land
we dont know where we came from we dont know where we are going
but we just keep going and going and going will the highway ever end? it won't because we will continue to build it faster than we can drive
faster than the fast food we eat along the way
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 1:04 PM UTC
Sauntering the night away
among Suburban streets
with the cars
the light pollution
the concrete
and all those other signs of humanity
that writers before me loathed so much.
True, Thoreau may admire
an alchemical need for walking
every day and every night
in order to stay sane.
Yet he would shun my use of an
mp3 player
as "too technological"
or "too inorganic."
Yet as I make my way
through paved streets
why does the music
fit my steps so well?
And if the Romantics
would hate my headphones,
why does every happy song
remind me, with a smile, of her?
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC
oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
history repeats itself -
you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a cunt-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
it's free; a guess is free,
your little birdcage houses no sing-along.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
i long for a love that i cannot reach and cannot hold
it is a love so far away from tangibility and from the dreams that keep me awake (yet asleep) at night
it binds me to nothing because nothing is all i can obtain
yet nothing is everything that means something to me:
nothing is everything that i cannot grasp within the tiny hands that have carved these thoughts for a lifetime
because the possibility of our love is as slim as a starving human
and as unfathomable as the thousands of stars that overwhelm me as i gaze up at them
what we have is truly inorganic, lifeless, tired to the bone
it is sterile and unfertilised, impossible to merely thrive or bloom,
burdensome like the words that have made me who i am today
and stagnant like the brain of a dead man rotting
in other words,
our love is and will never be a reality
because you are a masterpiece
and i'm a disaster
(( still i long ))
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
A wonderful flowing mess of wind, hair, and face. The face, swirling away amongst the clouds. Like water, it evaporates into the atmosphere, only to be rained down again upon the world. Beautiful face particles, hydrating the plants and animals and splashing upon the rocks. Face bubbles. But are they small individual particles, each a different color, a different shade of the face? Or are they all the colors of the face swirled into one? Swirl upon swirl. The plants and animals will take in these particles, growing with them, nourished by them, reflecting them in their own visages. Immortal? or inorganic?
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
*actually, the only home i have are the muddy fields of belgium during world war i, or among the jews, but given the jews are settled, i guess i better daydream: i mean i never got the cultural imprint of the english idea of dating... put me in the Czech Republic and i'd be freely participating in ****** any day... this stiffening date-culture never appealed to me, it always felt like a divorce before a marriage: so no amorous fun with body but fun in making out in cordiality of being fully dressed and lapping palettes up with tongue rather than the ******** as if throwing a coconut at Robinson Crusoe? yes?! ah crap... point towards the Zulu clan, i just feel the need to strip naked.*
yeah, i believe in meow-meow land,
that's the country next to la-la-land...
where you're trying to sterilise
yourself in terms of organic
historicity and integrate yourself
in terms of inorganic sterilisation
via importing alien values to hush
the monogamy crescendo of failure.
with the irish telling you:
ain't no english...
and with scots you shout back:
there's no thing as to be treated impossible
whether in thought about or moved!
the irish want you to have a coarse
enough accent as them so you can be belittled...
i always favoured the scots, warm-hearted ********
and i too the first hairy-shinned trans-gender
kilt loving twirly girl of a music box
of cherry tree cheaply picked Muzak
for the thrills of shopping for cardigans and pineapples.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
I wanted to know what was real knowledge,
so I went to the wisest master, God,
Not to learn things of school or college,
But to go where no foot has ever trod.
.
God said," I know what you seek, child,
But if real knowledge is what you wish to gain,
You venture into mountains dark and prairies wild,
And go through joyful hurt and honoring pain."
.
I was ready to put up resistance,
Said God," To men you shall speak,
Who are the wisest of this existence,
And at the end you shall get what you seek."
.
And so I went to the Physicists,
On whose principles this world exists,
They asked, “Pascal’s law, Bulk modulus, Doppler effect, can you tell?"
I said," No sir, but like Newton, even I wondered why the apple fell."
"Sacrilege!" they said," You inelastic plastic, may your soul rest in hell."
But I remembered God's words and moved on.
.
Then I went to the scholars of Chemistry,
Who are the wisest in mankind's History,
They asked me," What about Dalton's law, KTG, inorganic Benzene, can you say?"
"Nothing, sir, but I wonder about molecules and atoms, night and day!"
"Sacrilege!" they said, " You miserable molecule, May in hell your grave lay."
But I remembered God's words and moved on.
.
Then I went to the supreme Mathematicians,
Whom I consider as God's own magicians,
They asked me," What on methods of solving DEs, LMVT, can you speak?"
"Nothing, sir, but I work on theorems of Euler, the mathematician Greek."
"Sacrilege!" they said," You rootless equation, may you end up in the Devil's steak."
But I remembered God's words and moved on.
.
Indeed, I felt sorry for their and the future generations' plight,
But at the end of the road, I realized God was right,
It’s not about knowing Pascal's, Dalton's or Euler's shouts,
Its knowing how to live life to your fullest, every time you breathe in and breathe out.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
“Look at Mother Nature on the run in the 1970s.” Neil Young
The earth battles back,
Katrina, Loma Prieta and Sandy destroy our complacency,
Hurricanes and earthquake chase us from our homes.
Our flood-ravaged farms fail us.
The bees go out on strike,
Refusing the work that sustains us.
Drought destroys germination,
Our food at war with our metabolism,
Energizing while poisoning our bodies.
Dioxin & mercury cross our epidermis,
Infect us; **** us in revenge.
The air itself in rebellion,
Hot, fetid, over-carbonated;
Unbreathable.
The atmosphere itself,
Voting us off the planet.
The non-human and the inorganic conspire against us,
Plot extinction of our species,
Condemn us for crimes against the earth.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
its the savages that have defined civilizations
in the near future
and in my mind
I can see movies showing children
the savagery of enforcing whiteness
confused and unable to help themselves
slobbering all over evolution
stumbling away from intelligence
savages wore fancy clothes
to compensate for a fantastic failure
impossible to sustain
inorganic
draining us
of our main resource
thinking
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC