I am piggish and baby like.
I am majestic and fly specked.
I sat with you,
Wipe your nose, angel. Teach me to be guilty.
Focused on an empty screen, I count my breath and lose my mind. I am cannibalistic, too untrained to sit still, too unfocused on the common goal. Bugs are working through my skin. Ideals shift like dirt in a landslide.
Where do my idols stand?
Plead with me; show me internal combustion engines while copy-cat wrongdoings crack open my platinum heart. Please me. I think I’m still alive. Domestic ideals scale the eyes. I choose my way using magic bathtub-potions and the advice of familiars. If the going gets rough, I’ll take the easy way out. I’m here; where are you?
Personal-law preachers babysit my mind. Philosophical speed limits are strictly enforced in my hometown. Geneva conventional attitudes lead the non-revolt in my community zoo.
We live in the prisons of childish minds.
I need my busted code of ethics fixed: I me I me I me. I’m well equipped with my snap on prick: me I me me me.
At 4:43 a.m. the globe is glowing red. Yet, even in my reveries I seek complexity, I complicate my narrow trench with stench. This is my life. This is one thing I cannot save. Something else dropped from my hand. Something solid, now in pieces on the ground.
“I think I can” was a great ideal. (Or do I mean false idol?)
Don’t you agree?