Legacy Devices

Grief patiently sits in the back seat, waiting to ring out saline. Little Missy is engaged with the pearl-decorated Swine, rambling through a Xeroxed screenplay entitled “White Trash Girl with Money”. Amy conveyed humility; a virtue you looked down upon from your condescending pinnacle. And me..? who smelts poetry to escape the carcasses of dreams which nobody knows or understands, so they make light of me. Or who he seems to be. Anonymous motherfuck pleasures his self by the single method his upbringing permits. God mourns on His opaque cloud, collecting stray abuses for bruises from other sources obscured by the scenery. CyberGoth girl ogles mourning dews- what can possibly empower you? Myself acts alone, for no one’s entertainment but my own, for the tragic comedy remains a mystery to the aged infantiles tortured by transparent ignorance and denial and even to the unchecked adolescence tearing down anxious streets, which fades the following day. But if you play the role you swore you wouldn’t play, I’d stop their taking toll. Or you can lie for me. Because in time, do we die, even you and even myself, leaving thoughts shared, things done, and lives touched. Mere aesthetics who they are. Playing sentimental chords loud, Lauren learns to live a little. Neither here nor there, dad exits perdition to buy his ready-to-wear wife. His reasons coincide with other wasp’s excuses naively accepted from American society, forging my entertaining, unorthodox delusions of a romantic life. But the bust supposed a dunce feigns an eruption, to appease the clock-work dogs, who withdraw, bellies full from choking down gratifying hate to forget pain. And every human body is a biological machine designed to propagate the species. But if you play the character you swore you wouldn’t come to be, you’d stop their burdening me. Or you can fake fitting me. You want a superman? You want a dream man? I’ll be your any thing. I’ll be your what ever complements you. Because in time, do we die, even you and even my self, leaving thoughts shared, things done, and lives touched. Lasting impressions who we are. You deserve an apology, Carrie - I never mean to make you cry. Written September 3rd, 2001 © on Sep 02 2001 05:22 PM PST   0 • 12