The crude pathology of convention
A set array on the grid of coercion
WE kneel before the gates
We kneel upon the veneer of taste
In a hallway, In a wastelot, in the street
Sitting safely under reinforced concrete
Cover story as identity
Unconscious reflex to autonomy
Manifesting our own sense of scarcity
That long due future built on mediocrity
Clutching relics to our chest
Eyes wide open to our own interests
Looking sideways, looking over, gaining trust
Liberation as a meansof closing shut
Agency to only isolate
Transparency on a doctored stage
Treasured and anguished pleasures of living
Disease of psyche culminating
We calculate our own deaths
Elegant parameters of our terminal breaths
Uneasy fantasies of flesh and shame
Castrated longing for the spinning frame
Stagnate blood pools at our feet
We stare fixed upon the bloodied sheets
Image Restraints
Control Process Gains