Byline: Born Under a Bad Sign
Meter and rhythm matter so much.
We beings born, raised, reared in constant revolution against a real hot rock can't dispute the flatness of that.
Find a way to love what you are doing. The things you are missing only have a made up meaning. There's no point to fester and foment. Don't get distracted by pop torture and slop culture.
Fame nor infamy entitles you to a paycheck. Learn to be cool looking for something steady under medium terms.
Existing on the peripheries of our own cultural landscapes, you, me and the rest of the hunchbacks gather behind not-so-gothic churches to craft cruel attacks.
With great power comes great inconsistency. Our Lady of the Great Hope can't help but hate the kids that come through from the other parish talking trash, flicking ash, grabbing cash.
I'm down with that gang and the other kids too who ripped out pages from school books, threw rocks at trains and stole transfers from the bus while the driver was hitting the head.
You can have hundreds of adventures by using access keys to gain entry into municipal transit ports across the greater metro area. I track beyond the historic district, past fountains, arcades, river banks and abandoned tunnels. My environment is my education.
A ten-gallon drum oozes nothing healthy, toxic scents and industrial grime. The percussion of insects on a balmy evening reinforces summer's rhythm, the time and tempo of the season.
We were all kids once. So the saying goes. But some of us were kids more than once. Maybe every morning. Before the splash across the face and the dust of compromise settles. The sun beats a rhythm, the wind drops a beat and a lonely night slowly unfolds.
I belong to long memories. Beyond haunted harmonies. Beside ourselves.
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