Ozarka

We are all the sacrificial lambs of a value system that offers preferential treatment based on arbitrary concerns. Snapshots of individual crimes splay out across our collective unconscious with authority figures pining for both the dividends born of our efforts and exponentially potent methods of expelling the will to struggle. On the last train ride to KC, bourbon streaks whittle bamboo chutes into absolute potentialities that vivisect our brains into minimalist paintings to be sold at pro-capitalist exhibitions.

Thom Yorke’s blissful reverie inducts statements of lotus flowers in NHS regalia plummeting under the stage in simulacrum polaroids of the ascent along the stairway to heaven. Greatness exudes from the very pores of Alexandrite worshippers as they shed the previous necessity of summer-time attrition and fully pledge to begin the journey across vistas of prepositional positioning and verbal dereliction.

“I raised a fist to amulets and overjoyed expositions on the concrete nature of humility,” says the cherubim with a crooked eye and a taste for wines fermented between the nether regions of Grecian frescoes. I want to follow death and all his friends into fields of homicidal wisps charging a buck fifty for a stint of arsenic to the carotid.

Suspiciously peering from the codex of film-tapes kept in sanctimoniously arranged catalogues, I foot the bill of arrogance by experiencing ego-death above hoards of movie-goers yearning for a twist of metaphysical pedigree and a puree of spiritual reactions at the result of a singed face barking orders from the direct midpoint of the black void.

Knowing what is wrong steps in the false direction of claiming to know that which is correct for the phylum cordata to impose upon itself. How can I express what’s sucked out from my being with the force of an overzealous frat-man-boy exhuming his dinner in a grotesque amalgamation of toxins and sweetened flavoring through the by-ways of collegiate plumbing?

Rosiness etches indelibly on the cheeks of surly youths playing grab-ass while dangling from hormonal hooks of chemical dependence. Sacrificial statements blunder from unwise lips as troops translate footsteps from the brim of a doll’s house and shatter glassware over Ibsen’s bloated skull.

Krogstad and Torvald shimmy assiduously post-listening to Like A Rolling Stone and wondering the meaning of its ins and outs, nearly short-circuiting from the effort. This is all really pointless.