| |
|
|
I've thought about a piece of art,
it's a man with a gun
pointing it inside a baby carriage,
and he pulls the trigger
does it hit the baby, the doll, both
or his conscience,
or perhaps the parents or bystanders?
if observation is reality -
then the memories of it are invisible,
hitting the emptiness
imprinted randomly in space and time.
And thus if we forget, rewrite history,
try to avoid the tail,
which we can't observe, it strikes
at the same time,
and it remains there, as a legacy
of the daemonic forces
which interloops with eachother
in endless matrix's
Then superstitions flow into our reality
instead of holy rituals -
and multiplicatons of the event occur
and suddenly society
That's the heart of the ship and I don't -
I don't understand
the love of things should be of
eachother instead.
and it's neither the disease or cure
which kills you
it's the rivers beneath the thought of it
the chamber of chalice's
which is a program of repeating codes,
of cancerous growth,
which spreads if the graal is not sealed.
There's the machine which can't create
only control and replicate,
the patterns which others left behind,
have a drink, but know
you'll always find yourself starvin'
for more at the cross.
like a wolf which thought it self
a son of the gods,
|