I am piggish and baby like.

I am majestic and fly specked.

I sat with you,

incompetent.

 

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?