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2001-09-24 05:19:54 (UTC)


in the straddle of now that rides tirelessly and without
mercy in a phase to reincarnate as mythology in the near
distant future, I find myself in a preplexed state that
seems to make me invert the sylogy (??), where the question
of does the world hate me as much as I hate the world
suddenly become does the worl hate me as much as I hate

The work is done
The time has come
For thrice has thy besat the sun
but would you think as your told
and modify to fit the mode
would you expect much from the old
or anything from ten year olds
the distant sun is growing cold
imploding on her centerfold
Giger flesh that breeds the mold
of wasted parchment, oil, and coal
seeks the fresh and drains the soul
sly and lucid liquid stone
slippery, tense, and hot as hell
I rub you off and fare-thee-well
and freedom cracks within your shell
to recoil that familiar smell
of fear mistrust lust sex and fear
enough to make the voices hear
the plans you have to win the war
the rhymes too cheap, I'll look for more

I'm torn... ... ... ... ... ...