It's 5:43AM on Sunday morning.
I've never felt so bleak on
such a warm passing of a 12-07.
Synthesization of bytes.
Conscripts of pirated music.
Preparing tracks for journeys.
The insides of my eyes feel
pinched inwards, as though
they are facing greater things.
Prolonging classic pop beats.
Circuit-bending strangeness.
The vocoder is missing.
Goodbye to all close calls,
water glasses filled to the rounded top--
no room for any of that poison.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment