Tuesday, December 21, 2010
newton's world is a great machine operated by a demon at a button wearied by years of narrative science. cursed in the repetition of a gravity which collapses into a masochist's minstrel pushing a fat lamb up an incline of nails. nuns with guns are chasing their own habits. business men reach their hands into their throats. they will breed a new cancer with an asexual reproduction of disfigured midgets growing from the tumors in their chests. they will run through the heart of them, beating faster, faster, faster till their power suits are ablaze in names. mothers will shove their children back into their wombs where they will be safe from craven comforts and sickbed medicine along the dark streets of a coward's definition of a tomb's prediction. i will be buried alive in darkness, my sky like a shadow, my spirit a house i cannot escape warming in the night like a defense mechanism weeping the voiceless whispers of consecreated cries burst into the grammar of a cave.
you can tell an ideologue by the uneven distibution of their rage
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