truth is a tricky, slippery thing isn't it? I froth at the mouth about truth sometimes but avoid its penetrating gaze myself too often. These are pages of self-medication only.
Spin
granularity grasped too tightly the loosest anger grip
and strings of pearls of perfect angularity surround him
a grain with a brain and a planet to practice on infinitem
at some point every crooked deal feels straighter
than the ring around the equator that holds it in
useless mines (Ares oil bubbles)
I obsess about possible explosions
the feeling of stepping on all these mines past lain
I worry about little limbs and original thought slaughtered
and strewn about about another man's war.
I have no real vision of such a realm
but through pixel-pixie magic and instinctual fear
of what depths we will delve in search of the next vein injection
the burning bush intones in dietic diplomacy
no power but for that the blind believing masses bestow upon him.
Hope and a prayer and mass communication
the weapons of mass destruction too slow-acting to notice.
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