Porcelain is Honduras II
We sat naked eyed
Staring out from beneath
Our novacaine existence
Not quite convinced at the current
Tangibilty of our physical reality
Groping at the strands and dendrites
Of sensation
On the crux of a realization
Forming inside the palms of our minds
Where twitching arthritic fingers
Threatened or dared
To break concentration
We were the first to see
And We were the last go
Recognizing the moment
For what it was
As bloated silver belly whales
Flying fish bowl circles above us
In overcast skies
Gave birth to Amniotic Death
And the inertia of apathy
Settled in the sedimentary river banks
Of
our collective consciousness
And children wept into unstained linens
For what they knew naught
And the brass played a catchy little number
That gave rhythm to her hips
And motion to her lips
And stuck copulating in the sick white glow
Lovers spent like ash to the winds and mingled in altogether different ways.
And had we been working side-by-side
No motion or stroke would have faltered
And had we been typing in cubicles
No punctuation would have been neglected
And had we been nursing newborn babes from a lacating tit
Not a drop would have spilt
Not a drop
onto indifferent gray pavement
And the machinery of the moment
Played itself out
And the sirens hissed somewhere
In the distance
Where safety was found in the linings
Of political offices
And elsewhere congradulations
were in order.
But Unfortunately,
the Change machine was out of order
But it’s been that way for quite some time.
So you should have known
And inside our hesitation
We witnessed pelvic thrusts
Insolent thrusts begging survival
Not of the species
Cause Homo saps lost itself
and gone willingly into the bleak
universal identity
No, these were the pelvic thrusts
Of narcissuses skyward
Towards a sky that echoed their desperation
But somewhere inside cumulus canyons
A voice chortled
In a universal dialetic of apathetic laughter
And where it chemicly defined
The Big Bang was in itself
An apathetic laugh
And we’ve been doing little more
Than riding a punchline
But the punch is always spiked
And who invited him to the party, anyway?
And either way, it doesn’t really matter,
Cause honestly:
I don’t really care.
But there was sincerity inside the apathy
That went unnoticed to everyone
Everyone but the precussion
Which rattled kingdoms to their floors
And kings from their throwns
And the apartment building
Has been vacant for weeks
But you can still smell the mold
The mold the grows on the face of crytsal meth
Men who lost wars to enemies internal external tangible and non
And the rent is cheap
But so is the life
Falling like asronauts into vacant space and time
Overwhelmed by technology and philosophy
Spewing eighth grade vocabulary to paper
As if it twere art
And there on the sheet it lies.
But they say honesty is the best policy, but who are they?
And did we ever really know them all that well?
Apologies are in order
But the change machine’s been out of order for weeks.
But you knew that already.
We sat naked eyed
Staring out from beneath
Our novacaine existence
Not quite convinced at the current
Tangibilty of our physical reality
Groping at the strands and dendrites
Of sensation
On the crux of a realization
Forming inside the palms of our minds
Where twitching arthritic fingers
Threatened or dared
To break concentration
We were the first to see
And We were the last go
Recognizing the moment
For what it was
As bloated silver belly whales
Flying fish bowl circles above us
In overcast skies
Gave birth to Amniotic Death
And the inertia of apathy
Settled in the sedimentary river banks
Of
our collective consciousness
And children wept into unstained linens
For what they knew naught
And the brass played a catchy little number
That gave rhythm to her hips
And motion to her lips
And stuck copulating in the sick white glow
Lovers spent like ash to the winds and mingled in altogether different ways.
And had we been working side-by-side
No motion or stroke would have faltered
And had we been typing in cubicles
No punctuation would have been neglected
And had we been nursing newborn babes from a lacating tit
Not a drop would have spilt
Not a drop
onto indifferent gray pavement
And the machinery of the moment
Played itself out
And the sirens hissed somewhere
In the distance
Where safety was found in the linings
Of political offices
And elsewhere congradulations
were in order.
But Unfortunately,
the Change machine was out of order
But it’s been that way for quite some time.
So you should have known
And inside our hesitation
We witnessed pelvic thrusts
Insolent thrusts begging survival
Not of the species
Cause Homo saps lost itself
and gone willingly into the bleak
universal identity
No, these were the pelvic thrusts
Of narcissuses skyward
Towards a sky that echoed their desperation
But somewhere inside cumulus canyons
A voice chortled
In a universal dialetic of apathetic laughter
And where it chemicly defined
The Big Bang was in itself
An apathetic laugh
And we’ve been doing little more
Than riding a punchline
But the punch is always spiked
And who invited him to the party, anyway?
And either way, it doesn’t really matter,
Cause honestly:
I don’t really care.
But there was sincerity inside the apathy
That went unnoticed to everyone
Everyone but the precussion
Which rattled kingdoms to their floors
And kings from their throwns
And the apartment building
Has been vacant for weeks
But you can still smell the mold
The mold the grows on the face of crytsal meth
Men who lost wars to enemies internal external tangible and non
And the rent is cheap
But so is the life
Falling like asronauts into vacant space and time
Overwhelmed by technology and philosophy
Spewing eighth grade vocabulary to paper
As if it twere art
And there on the sheet it lies.
But they say honesty is the best policy, but who are they?
And did we ever really know them all that well?
Apologies are in order
But the change machine’s been out of order for weeks.
But you knew that already.
