I refuse

to understand the glamor of suffering
and the height of blind cultural obsession,
plus the devotion to jobs and concrete: wives of peace and comfort

You and I must reveal the truest color of all, from out ourselves:

The powerful Greytone.
Pure like blueskin,
clean like green and purple,
anything that we lack, really.

So far off the mark-
infinitely denying our selfish crimes!

Isn’t it that the population entrusts a serving of daily blood
by Monarchs, despots, and revolutionaries

Those that falsify tomatoes as diamonds

and bricks of gold for loaves of bread

There is no country, president, god, game, or life.

Nothing.

The fragrance of honey suckle,

or maybe it’s black locust,

imbues the boulevard.

the corner store stopped selling their poisons six minutes ago.

there is never enough sauce to soothe the spectacle;

living without a conscience only for a few moments at a time.

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Published by

errorattic

Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

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