Time is such a thing
as to be every evil, or any
good. The cleansing decay
of supposed biological

demise… Strange how faces,
with the so sudden imposition
of photographs, showing us
just how similar all life is.

Disturbing casually, in the horror
of heritage, forgotten in the
assumption of identity, increasingly
stagnant, in the wading pool of

the generation gap. Bloody
language of the greatest age, battle
of sound and taste stalemated,
sublimated in the historical significance

of the cycle. Ignored, but begging
to be recognized like a slasher flick
banking on gore. My misidentification
honest, not intentional by any means,

lasting in the shallow list of material
accomplishment, enjoyed, but not checked
off. Rocked out in an act of reaction that
seemed to happen everywhere and all at once.

Just how it seems to always do. So, who’s
to say it’s not just as true? The blinding
hate? The serving rage? The perspective?

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