Window shines

yes I know it’s a rap

Packed bus. Looking at jobs. Tummy feels like knots. Got to get to my stop. I’m not, going ‬to be above all the things in mind. I’m live, but I have to worry about all the things all the time. I want to feel for all the things that are happening, but I’m just on my own moccasins.

I swear to you that they are doing this to keep your focus on your own problems. A distraction to stop you thinking about all they have done to make us get closer to the day it’s all over.

Anthropeacene. It’s own end and our own means. I’m not kidding, I just seem…

Knots in a scene. Not shibari fun but a knotted bleed. Hanging us all like Odins knowledge tree.

Giving up your eyes to save face

We see the truth

It’s them that’s making the hate

We can’t do this again

Anthropeacene, it’s just what they mean

All that will be left is lizards and queens

Shellman

this man evil.
not Hitler evil
not even sideshow bob evil
not a supervillain
just a man who has no brain, no hart, no soul
just a man who is killing us all
by doing noting at all

he is shellman
a sellman who is but a shell
dead, bereft of life but walking on the ash
shaking leaf hand received by none
he is done, done, done

he is shellman
a sellman who is but a shell
said, gives nothing the knife salting a lash
fake he has no place upon our earth
he is dumb, dumb, dumb

this man evil.
not Hitler evil
not even sideshow bob evil
not a supervillain
just a man who has no brain, no hart, no soul
just a man who is killing us all
by doing noting at all

Scared leaves, shaking

(to the tune of Creep by Radiohead)

I can’t hear you breathing. I can’t hear my thoughts. I am close to panic. It’s all out of sorts. The poison on the water, and flames in the sky. A crane hanging dangerously, one day it will fly.

I can’t hear my heartbeat. I can’t hear your sigh. Square cogs in my engine. The hell of reality, the heaven of the night. A sunset of a civiliation, one day it will die.

It’s all a dream. A horrible nightmare. Tell me I’m going to wake soon. Tell me I’ve already died! It’s just to much to bear. This ignores all the facts. We aren’t the only ones here, but we will take them with us when we go. Go. Go. On.

Cloudblades

Cutting edges of the sky. Ishmael flies his pigskin blimp high. Drinking brandy, and some handyman takes the hammer wheel. Antichrist, the redeemer, or is he just a dreamer? Limited to dreams of living rooms?

Boost June of the markets, and harsh republic darkness, we can ensure the commissary looms. Flying over forests of eucalyptus, listing to Rick from The Band sing Holy Cow. Eating some cheese and doing nothing else now, except float along.

Wetlands forming where once were roads, greasy warthogs eating roots in an abandoned carpark. Wet silky grass growing out from this marsh, ghosting building aching from times past. Mikes dropping down the street, potatoes growing under his feet, have you heard the news?

Ishmael continues to deepen their search and steal all that girths, floating again by the sea. Still, there are plastic shells, creatures dying yells, the marks from little wars. No one thinks this is fantastic, the night that seems elastic, and a fortress full of ghosts.