Monday, November 05, 2007

Dead Language

Another waste of time witnessed during a short life.
Existential conversations broadcasted over the Earth’s
public service announcements, satellites.

The utilization of imagination is dead like a conversation in Latin.

“Tua pulchra puella” (You are a beautiful girl), I say.
A drunken body snores deep,

a subterranean core-dweller looking for unconscious resolution.

Humorless people in control,
chewing on chowder and the start of the day.

I dodge the power mongers within the hopes of
bought souls from the corner café.

The rotten spirits hand me the skeleton keys to what has already been done.
I’ve been elected to be the next accomplice to the freakshow experience.

The secret code word is “Die.” It will get you into the Suicide Social Convention.
Shared thoughts and repeated conversations with anesthesiologists.
Parked wheelchairs squat in the corners of the hallway’s
molding walls.

Maybe they think that their ride has come.
Their robes and slippers morph into tuxedos and Italian leather shoes.
Top hats for the men. Animal’s fur eternally sleeps on the heads of woman.

It’s like we’re all just squirrels foraging for
another long winter,

junkies with no score.


Blogger Chad said...

Holy shit man... Brandon Bird is a genius. No one wants to play Sega with Harrison Ford.

5:12 AM  
Blogger Neil Kelly said...

I know. What an imagination.

2:14 PM  
Blogger Charmi said...

It's been over a month since you posted...

4:30 PM  

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