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State Of The Art - Pilot Whale

All your possessions aren't really yours to begin with. It's all rental. a personal heirloom of some sort, your fingerprints the only remnants of your presence, your adventures the fables of your life. She's/he's perfect. clean, untainted, like a blank canvas before society smears 99 shades of shit all over it.

Poincare recurrence theorem, all systems go, reincarnation. Poof, Vamos, you're a cat, a perfectly propagated blade of grass waiting to be eviscerated by a scythe mercilessly or devoured by a mule, a famished cow, you're a brick in the wall, a remote controller, an atom floating in a vacuum of continuum time and space with no direction, without a voice, blitzkrieg bopping from one zeitgeist to another, attaching yourself to anything or anyone, becoming one with them until they, become nothing but mere antimatter, tangible no longer, visible no longer, feeling no longer before restarting, with a new identity.

As seconds ticks by, hours on end, year after year, singing songs of giving joy to the world, an honest lie, and through leap year after leap year, February 29, just like any other day, nothing special, no double chocolate fudge rainbow spreading across the sky with diamond encrusted stairways to heaven dropping off the sky, "for one day only, February 29" NO.

All these hocus pocus thriving in their green blood, the little pigs are obviously oblivious to the date of expiration stamped upon their meager souls. Bodies upon bodies underneath the grounds we walk on, in billions stacking side by side neatly for the worms to feast on, tasty bits of failure and utter disappointment, lucky ones gets cremated, but religious cunts are all against that, it's not right they say, we should return back to earth, give back to the land, coffin manufacturers the world over rejoicing, laughing their way to the goddamn bank.

Cause if you worry about the ocean, then comes the sun, the earth and the moon, no respite, no breather whatsoever, run little pig run for your life, run to your death, run till you can't run anymore, till your muscles grow weary, till you get cardiac assaults, till your aging bones cave in like a cheap ass hollow brittle fishbone. And here I am writing this, and there you are reading this, waiting on complete eradication, tick fucking tock, expiration.

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Copyright © © 2012 Ab Syahid All Rights Reserved

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