I lick my finger to smear your face
Blur tools erase stains until little remains
But off white and faded black, why not off black?
Why not everyone be free of objectivity?
But I cannot cancel the concerning, the working class.
One cannot surpass the limits of silence until one learns of this.
One cannot grasp violence in the palms of his fists
And let it drip down his fingertips in acrylic wisps
Of fine air, crisp and free on Fridays.
One must allow for arrogance, therefore letting in the cold breeze
Of faded white tee's.
During the week it's faded white sleeves.
Listen to the meek and praise their humdrumings.
Without one million little arms to carry your weight
Your subcollective would be emptied quickly by meer men
And then your full features would be emptied again.
What a shame.
What a shame to pretend you stand, unxeroxed.
The revolution will be inside of your television.
You will ignore the calamity like a calm casino bee
You lounge in good graces, gifted by giving arms
Such harm could be avoided were you to lay down your jaw
Let go of this paw, this tale, this lion
Let forth the streams of subtle air bubbles
Until nobody notices the noise anymore.
Because everyone seeks to decompose wholly
But nobody knows that dirt is made from skin
So if we do take what we give as we intend
Then nothing is new, so nothing is left but sad grins
On grimy faces and few traces of that even.
Let imagination emerge from internal combustion
Of sparked synapses and blurted lusting
Let go of grabbing hold and let flow the stone cutter's colds
Soon the sick will control the old
So now the grass is green from decay, not dismay, simple certainty.
Alarming, yes.
