Isnít It
Isnít it funny? Isnít it funny to know? Isnít it funny that life was more than a silly little string? A free flowing infinitesimal thread tie to those plastic bubbles of thought you bought at the parade and it was sweeter than cotton candy. Blue strands strewn off you black lips in that moment we were. The crowd around us moving in a slow Gaussian Blur. in that moment I adjusted the focus. But I was not you and you were not me, sipping my soda we turned one with infinity the insoluble solution which splashed on our feet in this moment of becoming because we were becoming, we had became, or I had become. One with the birds who rode on the wind, smashing my reflection in the lake with a stick, the echoes of grenades going off, blowing off digits. Pinkies, indexes and middle fingers we boldly wave at the truth, turning around cunningly holding justice like a loaf of bread. Isnít that right old man? Isnít that right? The same old man who prays for depression instead of consciousness supreme. Prefab propaganda which is always served made ready to order. Isnít that right old man, like pepper in your soup? But you canít stop it from coming the new you which was me. You canít hide it, behind your dusty antique black and white cibachrome beliefs for the world is now Technicolor, a virtual dvd nation as you stand in your ignorance water coming up to your ankles with rubber floaties around your ankles you think you are man of the world isnít that right, dime store messiah, however full submergence is necessary, full submergence is necessary in order to dive deep into the depths and come up naked with fish, to dive deep into the depths and become that with existence, to take one last plunge into the abyss and come up breathing in the know. There is no seaweed, no evil, no demons down below. Only the hands of creation outstretched displaying all you have wrought forth until now, and until now all you have been doing is mining coal of the lowest grade. Refusing the faith in your heart to compress these seeds of ambition into diamonds, you walk outside wave at the master and with an instinctual knowing leave the gate wide open, but tomorrow you will return with a fifth and tilt you head in forgiveness. Isnít that right old man? Isnít that right? Isnít it

 

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