The synthetic oil wasteGlitch_Spectrum
would like to cordially invite you to decompose.
nothing against you, personally.
we promise.
well, as much as a refracted spectrum of light can promise.
Which, honestly, doesn’t amount to much.
But still.
Still.
still-static clouds thick with thunder,
clinging to dread-ideals,
mutter desperately under their breaths–
tomorrow,
tomorrow.
‘n them love-lustin’ storm chasers,
mutter some whiskey prayer
while oaken nuns tsk with whipping rulertip,
red-welts spelling the names of our soulmates
only to discover they’re long dead ‘n dreamin’.
so we leave our heroes,
(Strain, Dipple, et. al. So us?
this is a very difficult logic to follow,
Mr. Kennedy)
dime-dream-dead ‘n key-tapping,
while them storm clouds patter on pavement,
spreading that wasteGlitch_Spectrum,
neon refraction unlike even prismatic light,
unlike even even that last light.
the wasteGlitch_Spectrum gently reminds,
that you were handed nothing but bad debt,
and a history of mistakes–
there’s no life in the life of that.
but there’s lie to their lyre,
‘n you and I know that.
them storm-clouds keep up their patter,
‘n the storm-chasers face their hangover with brave faces_
‘n weak stomachs.
but bright sunshine, wet pavement.
