Knot Me

This is civilization.
This is civilization.
A civil…ized? Nation.
Where are you all going? So quickly
In your cars to jobs, corporate or part time, the fast or slow pace of sick and stuck and sad.
But I don’t mean to be the Debbie Downer. It’s a fine town. By which I mean it’s Okay (you’re okay, I’m okay, everything’s gonna be O-kay)
A slime layer molts off the intersection and calls itself sand and your tire tracks skid over it on your way towards Alright, Okay, Fine.
Red Light. Green Light. Going….Going….Gone.

Stop. Step out of the vehicle. Get out of the car with your HANDS UP. HANDS UP. I said, HANDS UP!
Get on the ground. Get on the GROUND. Get on the ground. With your hands up ( ? ) . I said, with your HANDS UP. GET ON The GROUND. We won’t shoot, son, just get on the ground with your fucking hands up. Sir? Yes, sir. I should have listened better, sir. Next time. Sir.

The classic symptoms of a dreamy disposition are charged with mutiny and plead guilty to being a witch. incarceration can’t fetter inevitable chains. Those don’t disintegrate in chambers of stone or within the recesses of flesh buried deep. Time has her crowning call and won’t relent, she mates with space in wicked adulation of spirit so that when our blood boils it simmers too. This is what is meant by: fate.

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