Wasted State

They tear the decadent, golden

romance from the ancient languages,

yelling: take another drink,

take another drag. And buildings

stand as solemn statues of

character, defying—lowly lowly

lowly—and providing homes

up in the sky; in the rain,

they cry, and in the snow

they weep. And they squat down,

up there, changing states,

and changing times,

and changing nations

to the rhythm of hedon

sacks that say: I am the fire,

let me strip thee of thyself.

And the pariah is one letter

from the parish and yet

the ideas stem further

than the vacant truth that

binds them: hosting the gospel

of neon signs atop those

buildings saying: He

died for your sins;

and wash yourselves in

the streams of the—holy

holy holy holy—golden

glory that wraps itself

in the wrath of merciful—

mercy mercy mercy—

wrath and pursy. Do not

speak until ye find your

heart rested in Mine,

that from which you come.

The speech is depraved,

and hollow, and disillusioned,

and crazes them. And them

cannot speak; and

sanity is jading past them,

sun shines from,

and bounces back to,

only when the clouds roam.
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