(no subject)
You wake up in a hundreds-years-old town with limestone snow you have to chisel off the cars in the morning, and in mine I’ve got a metallic sky with a ring of soap scum. Our noses in books, always did what we were told, got all these ideas and all this trepidation, and now we tiptoe and peek out into this rock we have to inherit in scorn and chaos and madness. They call the creatures folklore, but they’re dancing right in front of our faces. Wrapped around telephone poles, serpentine; claws rising out of the mud in a backstroke; glassy eyes watching from afar.
You talk of games of flattery, and it is surely no game, but let’s say for a moment that it’s the only saving grace of structure in our otherwise abysmal and sparking, tripped wires we have the nerve to call socializing. I’d be accused of perversion and blasphemy of what’s sacred, yet it’s the most innocent thing I’ve got. And the Lord tells us judge not lest we be, but all those staring eyes and gaping mouths would whisper unspeakable things of us when, in reality, we barely have any idea what’s going on. All we know is that it works, and we are happy, and nobody has to know. My own fat creature tells me that again and again.
We’d both wear jackboots and shave our heads cockatoo if it weren’t a costume for the both of us. Thick-padded work gloves and leather pants and adorning a bunch of holes in our cheesy heads, hands on our hips, surveying the arsonist wreck of our society and the soggy cardboard messes of our own lives. We’ve had it pretty good, but we could have had it better. Direction helps, and there’s no sign in sight.
Life is precious and aye, we know that, we’ve gazed into its reeking maw. It is so much easier to turn to orcs and ponies and the knowledge in dusty journals that chalks up to nothing. We’re both fairly intelligent, I’d argue, so what the fuck is being an adult other than a veneer of suits and cigarettes? Is it a contest of denying our natures as long as possible? It must be the id, it’s Satan, it’s primeval, it’s sacrilegious, it’s xenophobia, it’s immature, childish, and now tell me what the fuck a child ever did wrong unless an adult said it was so? Children have empathy-they know when they’ve truly wronged-or perhaps it’s just the ones with intuition? So we drink from the honey of bad excuses under the guise of civility all this time, being judged, being ransacked of pride and foresight, and finally, as we are forced to inherit the world as our own, we realize we’re starved on junk food and there just isn’t a niche carved thin enough for us.
I have a feeling that, somehow, all this time, we’ve been larvae nobody could tell was any different (save for a few this-n-thats), and now we’ve grown up to be wasps in a beehive. The drones don’t know what to do about it, but neither do we. We’ve been cultivated to keep this society going, yet it is in our nature to tear you all apart.
All mandibles and wings flying, savage buzzing, frothing and screeching, tearing you all apart.
You talk of games of flattery, and it is surely no game, but let’s say for a moment that it’s the only saving grace of structure in our otherwise abysmal and sparking, tripped wires we have the nerve to call socializing. I’d be accused of perversion and blasphemy of what’s sacred, yet it’s the most innocent thing I’ve got. And the Lord tells us judge not lest we be, but all those staring eyes and gaping mouths would whisper unspeakable things of us when, in reality, we barely have any idea what’s going on. All we know is that it works, and we are happy, and nobody has to know. My own fat creature tells me that again and again.
We’d both wear jackboots and shave our heads cockatoo if it weren’t a costume for the both of us. Thick-padded work gloves and leather pants and adorning a bunch of holes in our cheesy heads, hands on our hips, surveying the arsonist wreck of our society and the soggy cardboard messes of our own lives. We’ve had it pretty good, but we could have had it better. Direction helps, and there’s no sign in sight.
Life is precious and aye, we know that, we’ve gazed into its reeking maw. It is so much easier to turn to orcs and ponies and the knowledge in dusty journals that chalks up to nothing. We’re both fairly intelligent, I’d argue, so what the fuck is being an adult other than a veneer of suits and cigarettes? Is it a contest of denying our natures as long as possible? It must be the id, it’s Satan, it’s primeval, it’s sacrilegious, it’s xenophobia, it’s immature, childish, and now tell me what the fuck a child ever did wrong unless an adult said it was so? Children have empathy-they know when they’ve truly wronged-or perhaps it’s just the ones with intuition? So we drink from the honey of bad excuses under the guise of civility all this time, being judged, being ransacked of pride and foresight, and finally, as we are forced to inherit the world as our own, we realize we’re starved on junk food and there just isn’t a niche carved thin enough for us.
I have a feeling that, somehow, all this time, we’ve been larvae nobody could tell was any different (save for a few this-n-thats), and now we’ve grown up to be wasps in a beehive. The drones don’t know what to do about it, but neither do we. We’ve been cultivated to keep this society going, yet it is in our nature to tear you all apart.
All mandibles and wings flying, savage buzzing, frothing and screeching, tearing you all apart.