The
drugs I’m taking for my back are wiping me out.
I’m
a space cadet looking for a suitable planet to call home.
If
you’re going to be a tried and true artist you must sacrifice everything.
This
isn’t some romantic notion or ploy to entice someone into a bear trap.
Everything
is a chore as life is presented to me as a coat of arms and I fight the
unreality of being boxed in or hugged by a Westworld
robot.
Let’s
stop the chit chat and get down to the reality of a one-two-punch and being
laid out like an action painting or catalog not even worth wiping your ass
with.
Fuck
power and money and the secrets shared behind closed doors by very small
individuals who have no empathy whatsoever or concept of what is truly real
versus what’s virtual reality.
I
have never felt comfortable in the shower. Are there directions on how to
properly wash oneself?
Too
much slight of hand and orifices just out of reach. I feel like it’s a game of
tic-tac-toe I’ll never win.
I thought Dr. Oz was exposed as a fraud and the
Tinman was just another anti-hero looking for a protagonist to take advantage
of.
So
much shit flying everywhere, not sure I’ll ever feel at peace again.
The
terrorists won, inducing fear into our baby talk and every other mode of
conversation including pig Latin and psychobabble.
You
want the truth? Well I’ll tell you the last time I husked the truth I was on
another planet where everyone dressed alike and that metallic taste in your
mouth meant you were home sweet home.
Charles Cicirella
6/6/2018
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