shell
casings over frozen ground as far as eyes can see
still,
it's a thrill, a desolate thrill
echoes
far as ears can hear
such
ugly echoes from natural beauty, natural
beauty
with natural cosmetics
the
human animal lenscrafter cast self portrait
my
heroine, the image counts as natural i say
seems
to feel natural to me
ugly
cackling echoes, ruined soul reverb, but it could be worse
yes
there's worse things than the ruination of soul, cause
bullshit
makes the flowers grow and that's beautiful, princess
play
some beautiful dreamy music der prince...
so
beautiful you want to kill yourself, just end the torturous
frustration
and
skip straight to consummation, or death, liberty or fate, either way
but
straight, no chaser
gratification
down to a science
the
climate is under control, calculated, frozen, the optimal temperature
my
appliances read my mind while i read theirs, it's a monologue
it
hasn't put a dent in the OCD fingers
they
still probe for what, i dunno, lost soul?
i
never even got a good hit out of whatever that was
just
chasing the ideal of a rush that never existed or will exist
it
has all become a binge mentality but there are worse things
than that
and
there might be infinitely better things too, like regular life,
except
you're
ten feet off the ground, maybe i should buy a pair of stilts
and
mustache wax, and rogaine, and then i can do cocaine
and
feel alright about it, but until then, tundra beckons
me
to the horizon, dragging behind me an ever-growing
array
of scientific instruments
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