The sun and its veil drags along the humdrum path, like an old dog’s broken tooth, lodging itself into a decrepit chair. Right up its ****; where it belongs and longs to be loved. It suffocates, coagulates, and discombobulates the bowery citizens within the pearl atolls. By the rims of the gates, Moses receives ******* while a sojourning sheik blasts the radio. Meanwhile, the teats of Atlas are duly pounded as the mortals are aroused and grounded. Never beholden to ecumenist beauty, life lives on, defying questions. It festoons its lexicon of self-defeat and the synonyms that we waste sun on; A halcyon is redacted before long. I am left at the teeth of a sycophant and a broad-shouldered man who I adore in dangerous elan. Epigrams foist themselves upon the masts, the masts that sail us o’er the soot of the ocean, and land us flippantly onto the crystalline concentration line which is a-gaping wide.
The orifice of a primordial awaits us.

Peace is ready for you, if you want it

Peace belongs to you, if you want it
Peace will carry you, if you want it
Peace will reign for you, if you want it
Peace will give to you, if you want it
Peace is ready for you, if you want it

Peace belongs to her, if she wants it
Peace will embrace her, if she wants it
Peace will protect her, if she wants it
Peace will love her, if she wants it
Peace is ready for her, if she wants it

Peace belongs to him, if he wants it
Peace will stand for him, if he wants it
Peace will dance for him, if he wants it
Peace will reach for him, if he wants it
Peace is ready for him, if he wants it

Peace belongs to us, if we want it
Peace will stay for us, if we want it
Peace will speak for us, if we want it
Peace will fight for us, if we want it
Peace is ready for us, if we want it

The bus yawns like an ambulance
Running on the gleaming road's cadence
A boy who fed himself with rain
Shut his eyes and rested on a pane

The jesters and dukes run their mouths
They laugh at their surnames in cloaks
All of these keeners would stay their hand
When ****** into a maskless dance
Yes, that's the joke

"Surely it's nice in the court for some moments"
He says,
"How can one be silent when they can afford to undress?"

Lafarr, what can you say?
Can we fit in a throne in different ways?
Lafarr, what can you say?
Beauty moans before it fades

This gleaning boy yawns like a braggart
And gives his footed stick a stagger
The sail-headed mind stings
For an ongoing ring

Her lambasting mouth has fell old
Her heart in ten paper-folds
The movement is new
But time accrues
Until every dance is a joke

“Surely, propriety’s paid by the cents”
She moans
“Who can be trusted to keep this world alone?”

Lafarr, what can you say?
Can we see the throne on different days?
Lafarr, what can you say?
Beauty moans before it fades

In the wake of innocence, I am left gaping with stupor at the threshold of pragmatism. I am fascinated by a hallway rather than its occupants. Its geometry tells me different facets of flying stories, while my human congeners remain hollow.
I am planning out my period of visibility and retaining prudence with my pondering of obsolescence. The inflection of my youth is becoming more contrived and unsatisfactory. I am continually outracing it.
I wish to fight for the Fatherland. Death is not my loss, that is becoming excruciatingly clear. I dream of marching in the air of sociopathic freedom. My brain longs for an ashen visage and valiant, black boots.
       Oh, I long for iron and purpose. I crave the sight of a united race, an insurmountable stature. I want to touch Caesar. Only the dead sympathize with me, for they know what it is like to be cruel and subsequently, obsolete.
       I do not want to ****. I want to fight and be a tool. An instillation of might. I want to be within a collective heel.

No one can understand why I emote for everyday hues. I am moved by the whims of life, sick as hell, thanks to this lumbering chassis. The day stays its unadorned hand, doesn’t it? It just waves, pretending to belong to life. How can I build my life around bowling pins that have never and will never learn to look down?

Here comes Jacques
On the pavement
Screaming at the sediment
Of conditional skin
People calling out, “a hack!”

When’s the next race
And when’s the next attack?
Who’ll be under the tracks?
Soul’s got no control
No more, ‘till the look is late

They seem catatonic
Stuck in the soul of fate
It is a gene state
Someone ought to stalk the hawk
His language is sardonic

See through the bottleneck?
Reliance on sonics
To repress every chronic
Malfunction of compunction
Here’s the future, bloodlet

We may not see what we deserve
Someone birthed us to forget
The role of a conscious pet
What’s within the ship’s fins?
The well-fed wield a coat of fur

Scream into the water well
It might throw something up to sell

It’s all very good
To not be happening
To be pedestrian
In the eye of the skin

What are you giving
To the fee of propriety?
Or maybe you’re taking
No loans for your own belief

You’re not looking
If you’re already there
Standing crooked
On decadent hardware

Tapeworms and toe shoes
Comments on twitches
Raking a living
On dollar-long pitches

Sustainable notebooks
Planning uncertainty
A humble room
For an affirmed reality

You’re not looking
If you’re already there
Standing crooked
Begging for a chair

Your mind is pretty
As a cog of the city
It may lark starkly
In a house that ages a-
-Loans to live up-
-Tunics promise the sky-
Domain disappoints you

Periodic shifts,
Assured to swallow you in splendour
Nothing engineered
Is best left well-explained

Standing for a chair
                         Standing for a chair
                                                  Standing for a chair
                                                           ­                 Standing for a chair
    Standing for a chair
                              Standing for a chair
                                                       Standing for a chair
                                                           ­                     Standing for a chair
         Standing for a chair
                                  Standing for a chair
                                                           Standing for a chair
                                                           ­                       Standing for a chair