Off white
like the polka dots
on the bow tie
of a shamefaced clown.

I’ve got bottled sunshine,
I’ve got a pipe full of rain.
The more they go,
the less I feel strange.

Expired is the
cloaking oracle moon,
gone, like a starving
tramp parade.
I’m lying face up, in a haystack
feeling cynical,
counterfeiting luck, beating god
at his own game.

A man in the east cries
for parasitic freedom.
Like a baby born,
to carry on a name.
I’m pacing up my hall
like a pendulum,
taking stock of everything
that keeps me sane.

I saw freedom depart
just all the same.
In through the front
and out the back gate,
but there are no toils
that don’t bring pain
so if you feel the sting,
don’t give it away.

I’m reaching for that blood speckled dove,
to clean it’s wings and send it above.
But it never sings it’s sovereign song
mirth is dying, essence is gone.

After closing a newspaper I am feeling lost and helpless being apart of a race that seems even more lost and helpless. Even after mechanical autonomy, immortality is reality, earth is infinite and the stars aren’t just lights in the sky but check points and tourist traps; What do we do?
I don’t understand how medical research in order to prolong and enhance life can be funded along side “defense”. A boy is given a vaccine so he can live long enough to become a productive member of society and feast upon a mortal meal of lead. If he is lucky enough to starve, then he can rest in unconsciousness in the eclipsing shadow of the western machine.

The infinite carousel
of childhood nostalgia
spirals, up and down.