Disown my humanity, night clouds take me over.

Why is it always that thoughts i can't put into words at any other time i can perfectly verbalize in the witching hour, when my house is asleep and the trees are singing to the train?

Our bones tell a story of slouching,
lower back pain,
millenia of weak knees.

We aren't made to go like machinery,
weren't meant to do much of anything but be the
mutated and ill-adapted child with too big a brain.

Suddenly there is such a thing as credit cards,
suddenly there is such a thing as currency,
suddenly there is such a thing as trade.
Our world is abstract, numbered,
held together by the safety pins of mutual narcissism recounted as love.
our world is Frankenstein stitched with the coarse black thread of dependance.

Nothing exists anymore, you know.
I'm typing on a keyboard, pressing buttons
made in a factory
using methods and materials
which didn't exist until way after Mozart,
emblazoned with symbols
which didn't have meaning
until an age after the first people
discovered the safety of each others
nudity.

I can now officially drive myself around,
my feet a foot off the ground and
my ass in plush comfort above the grease
-stained mechanisms driving me,
fed on cheap fossilized and liquidized ancestors,
fed on the blood of people in the cradle of my history.
These must be end times.

How can a society which forces people onto a path that can't be followed without holding multiple contradictions as truth possibly try to go on? How can a government which needs an ethics commitee and a war sustain the love of its people without brainwashing?

don't want to live past the age of thirty five.
beyond 2025 into the shiny new future of 50s housewives
just to see it stained by the same concrete scars
and the same tobacco stains
and the same cough in the sky,
past when we give up hope of revolution
in favor of personal enlightenment or apathy or death,
to live past that would kill me faster than anything anyone could do to me.

i've escaped my thoughts, and now they are marching into the mottled gray clouds of angry peach nighttime with only ink and sleep to shoot at attacking moons.

i might help them evade the moon with some chemical warfare. I'm going to aim some toxic chemicals right at that fucker.