rich

smooth flavored nice things, lost in all absence of sensory connection.
Just one slide of a celluloid-based picture can make all that up.
Cigarettes that resemble hand soap for taste.
Everything may resemble soap.
or something pretentiously profound like that.
nice marketing.
anyway.
Cigarettes were hard to make fly.
But thanks to our dear people who flashed ads and funky jingle music,
we are all attune to it.
in the same way christmas is now all about carols.

-

the truth is in we are in some kind of spiral.
the apostrophe on this keyboard is absolutely malfunctional.
and the light coke on my left is jingling from my gestures.
and what of?
nothing.
just making silly thoughts fly.
and see which one sticks.
like how you decide which one is dirty underwear when the floors of your room is one big laundry bag.
give me something to munch on and i will start blabbering to you about the sweetness of food eating.
or something.

it is nice to not be able to connect instantaneously.
like i am deceived in the disconnection that exists for everyone.

can i write a song somehow.

and how much do i want it?

well, there are thoughts and there are actions.

and it is true. i desire a lot of things and wait for its release.

am i too steady?

maybe not. i contemplate with rage in my heart and attack with a calm mind and stomach.

no irascibility can exist in this world so hungry for consistency.

it is as if people expect to be the same people all the time.

like if i start writing this way i am supposed to finish through in the same manner.
but what if i say fuck you?
go fuck your cat or dog or if you have neither fuck a rat sleeping in one of your dirty cupboards?
or whatever?
what if individuality becomes a norm?
who becomes the rebel?
the one who makes an organization muzzled with conformity?
that would be interesting.
and then everyone once again will explode inwardly.
point a gun at everyone and then threaten everyone to move and become part of the norm.
and we will succumb.
because deep in our core, we tire easily.
and we listen to music to give us a re-taste of some experience.

we like everything. and we cannot admit it. because people pressure us to form misconceptions.
we cannot evade prejudice for ourselves because it is what we are taught and given.
there is no real idea of free thought.
and yet we struggle.
the irony is,
the struggle for free thought is an inward eating irony.
the oroboros is either good or bad.
if your tail sounds tastes funnny you munch much slower.
i am writing because i want to breathe.
we want to exhale.
we want to respirate with something.
and make up words. invent them.
and feel no shame for whatever we express.
fuck ourselves for thinking we have to stick to a form.
because the truth is, we do not have to keep trying.
or not.
or maybe yes..