Swallowing Bullets
Once upon a time, when we all lived in the forest and no one lived anywhere else...there was still gunpowder, and all the ailments it was used to treat. Among them was an overwhelming of empathy contained in some common vessel, one that felt too fragile for either this world or a heart split apart for, against and over it more than enough to wish for leaden indifference. The taste of a gun barrel give more than a hint of how avoid resolving the tension in the knot hidden in the pit of the stomach, with the swiftness of Occam's razor in Alexander's conquering hands...but it was nothing to suckle a half-life on, not like the slow grains of poison that peppered the meals and infected Mother's milk from curdled birth.
On such bittersweet diet existential existence was raised and maintained, at heavy enough levels to keep awareness of the surrounding harshness hazy and the skin thick to injury, slow-headed about any damage done as any thoughtlessness enabled by encasement in calloused epidermis. The resulting ashen-faced illness became what passed for normalcy, in an adaptable being convinced they could never change the world and its ways with any persuasion or sway. Imposing one's preferences on the environment seemed unjustifiable, no matter how toxic conditions and their resulting conditioning got...and so the shining brass jackets were peeled and shelled, until the pump was primed to run on forged fatalism clogging the circulatory system with spent shrapnel.
Every echo from this myth made flesh fell through history with all the weight it had to bear upon our dreaming future, from comic-book posturing that covered up a broken heart to the archetype Shelley made of Frankenstein and the golem made from buried hands and other mismatched body parts. As the song suggested, it takes a powerful sadness to be more iron man than crumbling katydid in this world...and a carapace harder than the un-canonized cannonball the skull can become, when the cranium weighs down on the shoulders so much the head's more than ready to cut itself off. But in all faltering nerve, their aforementioned endings were decapitated instead...as much as this truncated and fractured fraction of a fairly tale, made flesh every time we become iron to endure this thing called life. That's why all this shooting won't stop a thing...for who could be concerned about the shred in a hail of lead, when already that close to dead?
We eat all we can contain...and either fall down with the burden of it all or start spitting what we've learned to sup on...Samuel Bear Davis...
Once upon a time, when we all lived in the forest and no one lived anywhere else...there was still gunpowder, and all the ailments it was used to treat. Among them was an overwhelming of empathy contained in some common vessel, one that felt too fragile for either this world or a heart split apart for, against and over it more than enough to wish for leaden indifference. The taste of a gun barrel give more than a hint of how avoid resolving the tension in the knot hidden in the pit of the stomach, with the swiftness of Occam's razor in Alexander's conquering hands...but it was nothing to suckle a half-life on, not like the slow grains of poison that peppered the meals and infected Mother's milk from curdled birth.
On such bittersweet diet existential existence was raised and maintained, at heavy enough levels to keep awareness of the surrounding harshness hazy and the skin thick to injury, slow-headed about any damage done as any thoughtlessness enabled by encasement in calloused epidermis. The resulting ashen-faced illness became what passed for normalcy, in an adaptable being convinced they could never change the world and its ways with any persuasion or sway. Imposing one's preferences on the environment seemed unjustifiable, no matter how toxic conditions and their resulting conditioning got...and so the shining brass jackets were peeled and shelled, until the pump was primed to run on forged fatalism clogging the circulatory system with spent shrapnel.
Every echo from this myth made flesh fell through history with all the weight it had to bear upon our dreaming future, from comic-book posturing that covered up a broken heart to the archetype Shelley made of Frankenstein and the golem made from buried hands and other mismatched body parts. As the song suggested, it takes a powerful sadness to be more iron man than crumbling katydid in this world...and a carapace harder than the un-canonized cannonball the skull can become, when the cranium weighs down on the shoulders so much the head's more than ready to cut itself off. But in all faltering nerve, their aforementioned endings were decapitated instead...as much as this truncated and fractured fraction of a fairly tale, made flesh every time we become iron to endure this thing called life. That's why all this shooting won't stop a thing...for who could be concerned about the shred in a hail of lead, when already that close to dead?
We eat all we can contain...and either fall down with the burden of it all or start spitting what we've learned to sup on...Samuel Bear Davis...
