A
tattoo of sunflowers around a baby’s face brings up thoughts of godlessness and
anarchy from my stomach as each day wished away remains unformatted a broken
line of roots a tree branch a stand alone synapse gradually diminishing
reaching out to nothing but still we are sure there is a point and a reason and
a living to be made and living to be done yet still we shoot at the clock hands
bows and arrows and shade our eyes from sunlight while lightning offers no more
solace than any other demon we face striking out at us for our blood and we sit
and write it all down to escape to destroy to remain complicit and subjugated
while the id plots and plans like the rancorous enemy we surely are because
just as the sum total of our resentment builds to cataclysm and pyroclastic
flow at no point does the thought of stopping and speaking the cold hard truth
ever enter our conscious mind knowing as we do that a single syllable would
surely spell the complete end of our cursed and privileged time upon this crumbling
planet full stop or maybe not but would you be the first one to gamble on the
positive to roll the dice with angel wings and see what number comes up because
I cannot truly say I have the strength to back that play knowing as I do that
everything I have seen and heard up until now will only go on repeating like a
single vinyl groove worn down by a single edged diamond so I keep the dice in
clenched fist secret and selfish with no chance of foreseeable loss no rain no
crowds no gravity no death no sunflowers.
