object of

vagaries of despair


1. object of

it is becoming too late to care

wake me somewhere without a trace of human faces

I'll lie in the depths of dark caverns with the appetite of its void and microorganisms

closing in with deafening silence

I may always miss the carrion calls of the crows nonetheless

oh the stifling stir of wasted words

onsetting the sluicing of soul through sewer grates

corrugated iron gates standing strong

keeping us where we belong

displeased machinery wishing to punish us for resentment of use

the colors I can see are defiant as tourists

taking advantage of their right to sightsee

the blight of lifeless light

inserted where devils have opened booming businesses by stripping clean

less aggressive beings

No Madness is Complete

we wager for the prize

our personalized version of a universal mind

oscillating manifold

in every febrile head from thin to thick skulled


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