Cardboard Moon by Flower Bomb

An election is an annually re-newed prescription fill, certified and
picture-framed by the exploding skys of lead-rain imperialism. So many
digits and numbers tie the knots of woven order and security that keep
us warm in the dark space of infinity, but their sunshine is a dying
star and their beaches are washed up ash and crushed bone deposits. You
live the most when you come closest to death. I am screaming in sonar;
nice cars, broken teeth, big houses, own and possess, park picnics and
tragedy. The flowers of wildfire decorate the garden of eden, death is
our marital committed relationship. Dying becomes a work of art when
life is just a copy of homogenized reality.

Written December 20, 2016

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