It must be that simple.

The raw-ness of raw evenings,

And all the things you can’t say,

The utter pointless, swerve of

A future that is as stupid and undecided as you,

And the bombs will come and the children will die

And the images and films will be the same;

But there is never a reason.

It must be that simple.

It must be that simple

The greater good.

I always wonder what would happen if

The people who crowd the streets with

Such moral indignation,

And the obvious lick of the good and the true,

Were given their way,

Would utopia dawn, would a world of

Complete peace be the answer,

The completion of the dialectic?

No, but the point is the action

The pointless, heroic failure

Getting to the truth is not the goal

Knowing it won’t happen, that is the function.

The real reason for the horror is never

Defined and is probably dull and banal.

The conspiracy:

we live for the mystery

And the things they don’t say

Are the things in ourselves we don’t want to know.

So march March on, but know

You are walking away from the Real.

The Intrepid Fox

Net stocking leg swaying with the Jager bomb
that denotated a missed hand clap as
the slow grinding guitar symphony liberates
the soul of a machine that licks
a low cut future.

Float

Float this way brethren, for I have wonderful teeth and my spectre is of milky sheets, clean against your skin, reality is elsewhere, this childish frippery is an illusion, calm, calm yourselves, you are not a hollow mechanical machine empty of organs and cold, that is everybody else, you are different, like a Christ shaped pattern.
Float around this dead star of my shadowy blot, in your dreams I murdered your future with my imagination and your head contained my fame that wasn't even your intention, because there was no motive, but the crime was so perfect, that you killed me with my own imagination and after that you died from reality.
Float towards naked when you wear it all, that's the way it is now, gone, gone, you have gone, your flesh is what you wear, everyday, you were inside, somewhere, before, but you're teeth are wonderful and your dress sense always followed by a tick, as your network connects and your wireless world follows your name like an apparition.
Float to where you have too much, you are not a reflection, but a screen splaying outwards octopus like, you are homogeneous and I am your receptacle, the city is your facial expression creating new paths and disputes of ownership, there is nothing and you are the buildings shaking on the water.