Sunday, January 25, 2009

pedestrians are getting run
over by large plastic trucks
that suffer from
post-postpartum depression,
them, they’ll spit their past
in your eye and make you
see yourself as another,
something else, in eventuals
a belief construction makes
available, and in all together
you’ll find a moon where
a sun was, once bright with
shinning rays of warmth,
turned to cold dust blown
across a burdened existence,
them, they’ll capture your soul
and turn it, decapitating agency,
grown determinism unveils
a giant jester slashed fool,
hacked and butchered, amputated
with a humoured secretion,
laughing ataraxia.

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