Guilt's Own Blinders

(a poem by cEvin Key)

33.3 The speed rotates black vinyl circles under eyes never closing. Rewritten. Is it done? Fuck you. Around circles 33.3. Close to melting above all freezing just to realize how really hot everyone had become. Disillusioned I burn well. 33.3. The speed of things. Really? How the drums pound. Loud concussion welts on scars to battle old general's theme. Divide and conquer. 33.3. The third person existing within two within one so pitifully amputated reaching out. Farther back guesses that the drums sound rich as the ivory tooth like sticks that beat it. Closer to the edge, that barrier between real pain and intense taped elephant tusks. Exploitation. The front row facing imagined motion as bloody stumps pound the message so subliminal. Shredded tendons seeks the hand, no longer there, to feed the mouth. 33.3. Heat melts the glass house still broken. Hotter cracks in dirt used repetetively over and over. Still nothing grows. Silent fire. Dark earth. Clouded growing season. Unfurnished treeless baren ball. Rotating spitting toxins taught to destroy. A balance rotates farther changing, directs and wins, each vision blurred. 33.3. Living, thinking, not ever linking that shape known. Progressing to undermine. Basic binary on off breath exhale. Lung green shutters camera fixed. Overexposed skin burns. Mind some burning amber violent. The remedy not from a bottle time marked temperature upward moodswing. Tempered tension surface stoned. Water, paper, to air. Drying the cracks growth. Weak heaving mountain breeze. Active media disease. Toxic waste sold at pumps burned as gas driven cars. Slow death dissolve as old age gives way to what throughout time has been accumulated. Cancer the manmade rust. 66.6. Two measures of evil manipulate skill. Two minds inverted. 99.9. All greed is circled by guilt's own blinders. Two unconscious upside down manipulators doubting uncle Tom. The cabin, in the midst of the forests worst fire, burns down. While all around silence screams reassuring the world we all live in. 33.3. Inverted means nothing more or less. We live to succeed in what we die for. New life. All that thought lost now shared. Mountains breath easier hoping that times hand, though slow to change the rocks face, will mould a new generation. An evolution of consciousness rather than the physical form. Run fast from the wordless love disease. Faceless and flesh eating it's many mouths creates in others what it fears in its own reflection. It must slander others so that suspicion has no home in such a right angle mind. 33.3. Which point becomes the one above. Point out towards a mountain. Unchanging yet always shedding surface for what's underneath. Everchanging. New life. New born. Something to care for. Love.