Flesh golem
Legion head seeks the separation of identities through spatial reasoning, knowing me by solving for x. Not of this because there is no possibility of being it. It is seen in approximation therefore it must be close to but not of.
Surrounded by the things sought out to be of, but still no closer to being simply by seeing of and being in quarters to.
Can be near (sh)it but not of (sh)it.
How much does that cost in circumstance, in disposability of being, does the face blur and the sense of self smear?
Does the color fade and the luster lack, and the vibrancy dull with the passing, the shedding of self? Is the rubber patch for the plastic shell collected viciously, in effect to surround the mass and dull the core.
Black hole gift wrapped in a pseudo candy shell. Sinking down into the affection of transients seeking the favors and praise of the philth caesar, gabbing bright wide eyed with the scarecrow god, dog sperm facial and it's the best thing ever because those before me told me so.
The words of an old experienced fool are still just words from a fool. Talk it up, shine it up, and see how much shit can be bought for it's weight in flesh.
Legion head seeks out self by acknowledging itself as separate but of pack, it is as it sees as it becomes as it sees. Legion head has many eyes but one head of many thoughts and no questions beyond it's own mind, beyond it's own eyes looking inward at itself. Eyes rolling inward into an empty head full of vacant fleeting apparitions.
Dust to dust and ashes to ashes; back into the earth from which you emitted forth, larvae from feces, maggots from the corpse.
Just waiting to pass into fodder for the flowers, the ground whispers and moans for the chance to claim it's reward.
No fissure to crawl into, no place to be that was not seen long before any tread there, none above, none below; none that has not been there, to stay to stay to stay and to pray to pray to pray that at some point the ferris wheel breaks and the merry go round burns off a monkey.
Surrounded by the things sought out to be of, but still no closer to being simply by seeing of and being in quarters to.
Can be near (sh)it but not of (sh)it.
How much does that cost in circumstance, in disposability of being, does the face blur and the sense of self smear?
Does the color fade and the luster lack, and the vibrancy dull with the passing, the shedding of self? Is the rubber patch for the plastic shell collected viciously, in effect to surround the mass and dull the core.
Black hole gift wrapped in a pseudo candy shell. Sinking down into the affection of transients seeking the favors and praise of the philth caesar, gabbing bright wide eyed with the scarecrow god, dog sperm facial and it's the best thing ever because those before me told me so.
The words of an old experienced fool are still just words from a fool. Talk it up, shine it up, and see how much shit can be bought for it's weight in flesh.
Legion head seeks out self by acknowledging itself as separate but of pack, it is as it sees as it becomes as it sees. Legion head has many eyes but one head of many thoughts and no questions beyond it's own mind, beyond it's own eyes looking inward at itself. Eyes rolling inward into an empty head full of vacant fleeting apparitions.
Dust to dust and ashes to ashes; back into the earth from which you emitted forth, larvae from feces, maggots from the corpse.
Just waiting to pass into fodder for the flowers, the ground whispers and moans for the chance to claim it's reward.
No fissure to crawl into, no place to be that was not seen long before any tread there, none above, none below; none that has not been there, to stay to stay to stay and to pray to pray to pray that at some point the ferris wheel breaks and the merry go round burns off a monkey.