Buttonpushers

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   Is it any wonder when west meets east that tears are shed under golden globes, high in a sky with nowhere to go but rain upon us all. Suffering bleeds eternal with no gutter to take it from our collective sight. The dust so thick upon the air that we still feel it now, tickling our throats no longer but in every beat of national guilt. And still we craft these terrible destinies and hand them out to those we dub worthy

  – for you

as if it were a present bow-wrapped and wait and look towards their faces expectant and under a watchful eye they can feel naught but nervous disposition and rightly so. Coils unfurl with lazy diffidence and springs unsparing wrought their purpose unto the lucky few. A sky burns red and the ground, playful or jealous, mirrors it as if it were a child looking to annoy. A swash of vibrancy shared between worlds ever fighting for their drama to take centre stage, the spotlight a fickle bitch.

  – for me?

unsurprised perhaps that a gift is thrust our way, to every unwanted debt a cancellation of sorts. Golden globes for us all.

  Mystic men is suits and ties and with a power unheralded and wholly undeserved tell us all of hidden dangers, button-pushers with Polaroid people of import hanging, above the glass, in case of doom, fuck you all, to be smashed upon the smashing, an echoed crescendo of destruction reiterated in bunkers worldwide, doomed like the rest of us, kids and wives never to hang again.

  In times such as this, faith in man is the only necessity.

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~ by Joseph Blame on July 19, 2010.

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