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September 21, 2014

Tired and lonely, half of us witness what the brokenhearted summer is turning into,
but dying like Mandos and vanished like maths forgotten by a starving student of art, we
cannot tell anyone but the voiceless and the multitudes with finger ears and blank stares.
For the sepulchral summer was closed off, musty, and reminiscent of dust from our pasts, and
we longed for new dynasties ruled be Me and All Of Us Alone,
because maybe then the yellow pollution nights of Hastings and Commercial would seem more like real darkness
and we wouldn’t be so afraid of eyelicking perverts peering reptilian from the falsified shadows beneath the Esso
and from between the vehicle laden streets where in sleep screen blackness they sing softly, softly
of how we don’t need to be alone anymore if only we’d listen and come into the light (the
swift engorging sick white light of the Wal Mart Double Pack six ninety nine (they have you curled around their little finger).
If only,
if only the world understood what we’ve seen in the tiredly twirling leaves of the ageing season:
we, the word soaked world weary teenagers who have seen a quarter century pass by before our wet-behind-the-ears eyes—no, see,
we’re older than that, and younger, and what we’ve seen is bigger (and smaller) than the numbers on our Mastercards—
but we no longer have the words to communicate, because language is Dead.
If only Eliza Macintosh had gone to my high school.
She seemed to care about this shit.

One Comment leave one →
  1. September 23, 2014 7:30 am

    Allen Ginsberg sighting!

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