I just found this drug inspired piece hidden in my drafts from last year, enjoy.
A fresh direction that will give way for the new graves.
The digger digs; screams with rasp of scabs, “Perfection!” now content with his decaying confection.
We rant and we rave, “Look how brave!” as he reaches to grab another, bloody, smothered, body.
This contagion is not of contamination. It is cultivated within imagination, with discrimination, and a craving to feed our greedy inclination, with the contents of our coup congregation.
Defile my delineation, to designate future generations, to procreate a better nation, to recreate a revolution. I’ll reverberate, don’t you worry; I’ll reiterate my words of fury, for as long as it takes.
It takes an intense and immense mass of humans, to take on a massacre of humanity’s innovation. No fake pretense may occur; no damn fallacy. But I see only husks of mice,that often pretend to be men. It sickens me that you think this is “nice,” this blatant mutiny. You see the ripples in the sea, but say it only affects us “individuality.”
Members make movements, and cold hands send chills. I’ve seen what you’ve meant, what you’ve said we’d be “thrilled.”
When it infects our only prefect,
and all we had was vested in his hands,
what will we do with no dialect,
and on which leg will we stand when we make our demands?