Monday, November 21, 2022

trapped in the red shift, the eternal paradox
you cast out love for some weird lust with a girl from nowhere at a midnight hour.
you push that sex impulse like a machine.
it's a chemical virus you can't tame or inoculate
it's life energy depletion for a moment of bliss
addicts usually over dose
when the parasitic compulsion overtakes the host
killed by a red witch, unsympathetic magic you bleed out like a phase 
on infertile ground feeding impossible flowers
only the fool and the hanged woman know what it's like to go out swinging.
ah here comes the cold propulsion engines, giving panther mountain by improvisation.
it's all made up of dreams and illusions, that's what they say, eventually you can weave them together and create whatever you want
but is it real or part of the simulation
the answer to that is
does it matter?


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