pb

bees


just one more go at it
please, humor me, love
if for nothing but remembrance
in the face of this...this desolation

twisted-jaded-fleshy-too real
shades of our former vitality
thin and idealistic
this bland industry forgets this
banal, beaten bank
of memories and nostalgia
wrapped 'round a dimming core
of what should have been

dreams and dogma, now dust and deceit
pale shrift
in place of our youth and idealism
sold-whored-ripped-ridden-bartered-betrayed
a buck/minute at a time

plodding in place, jacked into this living construct
dreaming yesterdays
and breaths inbetween
like our now faded red lust
before it became too plebian and mean
for the Hive's pretentious, dead conceit




scratched out today at work on steno with a dull, chewed, stub of a pencil in stale flourescent light; hemmed in by a dusty cube amidst synthetic surfaces and dead matter. my skin looked green, my breath labored in the false air, my gorge rose at the stench of decayed hopes and the swirling dream-ashes in the too-close confines.

offices are like graveplots, your territory blocked off, your stamp made, your death apparent.

i want to be a gardener or a firefighter or a lawnmower man or a river guide or or or something real.



-pb



book: lovecraft
music: nin