they think they mad

i live in the destruction of myself, dying my living. i record my dissolution like an autoanthropologist who’s made the ecstatic mistake of going native. to breathe dreams, eat the scree of dust. the ecstasy of decay is a smell unparalleled by the rise of flowers and megatall skyscrapers. i walk in vague negations of tomorrow. i dance but not your dance. i sing but not your songs. the langwiches i enter for you are not for you, but from a mechanical necessity. yet i speak. i dance your dance. langwiches i don’t call dead, dying, non-existent, hardly langwiches … i don’t call … energies, frequencies, vibrations … of non-orders forming orders forming non-orders sliced, cake at the marriage of sleep and waking, what i might call freedom if i were given to understand such words. this destruction not dark any more than light, annihilating more than creating, not weak more than strong. a survival and exuberance of sorts, a spring of raw and windfallen vision.

oh beloved city, who shoves the nations together, who siphons the nature people from their looms into factories, who juxtaposes posing and possibility across the scapes, unredeemed by prefixes. 

the city is trains and bicycles to the moon, tunnels and towers – destination moon. but as the moon depends on the earth for its circles we need destination mars. destination proxima centauri b, destination destination. thank perseptione we’ve killed 90% of everything for those space programs. the scientists know what they’re doing, saving us from ourselves, coaxing ourselves from ourselves to ourselves. that’s what i call smart.

kill the cars. stuff them one by one up the asses of everyone making more than a hundred grand a year or having a hundred grand in anything. i know a hundred grand ain’t much these days. but it’s a helluva lot more than less. it’ll improve the look of those fuckers don’t you think, carplugs up their sphincters? improve their postures, diets, outlooks, orgasms. send their cars and asses to proxima centauri b. i’m an urban planner, i is, i amn’t an urban narl pen.

i write prophecies for metallic time.