Jon Pear (a.k.a. NeuroAster)

12tone blues

In alpha on May 24, 2008 at 3:18 pm

Depth of cut, down the pit of the self-concept’s core

Hate the game; love the player whose whole world is sore

Bishops, rooks, knights, and pawns are the blind, leading sheep

Go the wind’s way; adhere to the form; take the shape

Archives we keep for posterity

Sink to archaic antiquity

Legacies fade with identities

History swallows our skeletons

Bones of old collateral damage hide in lost muck of the earth, forgotten

Any numbered body could well have died with some honor, or died a virgin

Leaves and snowflakes fall, as the dollar-bills and coins enter and leave our wallets

Leave a gentle nuisance alone; enjoy your own blessings, and curse your servants

Wallow in reputations, dealings, and roles; win points with minds who pull strings

Wrestle with brutes in shallow ideomud; steal spotlights; flex your huge grins

Sure you can render unto Caesar a T4 slip from Mammon each year

What will your adaptations prove when the real, true future leaves your past bare?

All of your gilded silver shall endure more time than your grave

Cold as the guns and bullets the police need just to be safe

Dignity, pride, and status are the 666 of the beast

Toughen your public armor when your most deep self is a ghost

Inner-strength is the weakness of all who declare war on inner-peace

Shoot reporters who ruin the news with the truth; shoot them face to face

You are meat; let the Butcher of Age slice you more

Depth of cut, down the pit of the self-concept’s core


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