Incredible transgressions Of incredible Aurora Awe inspiring and breath-thieving linguistically eradicated enlightenment punctuates all of these lethargic, intolerable and toxic turntable sundays Antifreeze suicide was a lunatic commitment But exhaust flurries our congested cities And industry eats alive the fabric of environment, and is contradicted by sentience, as industry is only a construct of the imagination; I have witnessed the progression of everything and can, over anyone, appreciate the creator and the conman who topples his regime, I can feel the truths in the sky-scraping achievements of man and I can feel the vindication of their ruin just the same as I can pray to an immortal Godhead. Does that make sense? Touching the ether means falling a long way, anyway. As refugee orphans we have no thoroughfare and why did we think we wouldn't need it? Altruist momsie boys clutter gutters and loiter at tracks, and sew patches to their pants insistent on freedom and their starry-eyed, girl-children roadies perpetuate an invisible timeless boxcar fairytale. Nobody really wants anything but happiness and it's attainment has been financed, divided, and traded on boards, throwing money at your problems definitely works, so we indenture ourselves to a life of voluntary servitude to a system corrupted in a false media-initiated and propagandised 'pursuit of happiness', which is also an illusion, and in it we forget that you can't buy happiness with anything that has touched the devil's dick; fluttering, exasperated, purgatory-dwelling mortals. In the end, your equally tattered and nurtured soul is going to see the frivolity of pursuits of indulgence - and, of course, the frivolity of pursuits of youthful miscreance, too, and the redundancy in cubicle commitments, and their kush accoutrements which will drive you insanity until you've got to run away, and it isn't any of our fault to be forced into an unhappy medium, it is the same duality of everything. Courting a mistress of Lilith and tasting the ejaculate of Hades, basking under the unrequited golden spears cast by Apollo, surpassing man in luck by a statistical impossibility, tasting the tongue of your soulmate, mother earth's womb wrapped around your delicate interior in the middle of the valley Can't be bought with money and can't be predicted by time, which seems equally invalid a construct to be honest. Touch the land of forever and you will wonder forever why you ever came here, but stay in the land of forever and degrade your mortal facilities until your soul is what you've got to sell. And maybe that's what we're avoiding.
