Death fashion

Wrapped like clothpiles

In a sickening arte povera propagation of unliving the person not allowed to breathe freedom

Death fashion

Living beauty suffocating in the shrouds of dead traditions sculpting fearlines like dried up rivers in a deserted mind

Death fashion decreeing rigor mortis in every pose & posture, every step of shuffling feet

Death fashion

Shuffling scriptures like tarotcards

Laying amoral armored explosives and rusted crowsfeet on your predicted tracks allround, putting salt on every snail inching its way to real existence, rubbing salt in every wound inflicted by immoral lacerating tongues

Death fashion cracking whips out of impotence over cracking jokes that send your prisonwalls crumbling like stale bread left out in the heartwarming sun,

Your prisons are like ovens baking the resolve to survive whatever straightjacket you try to tailor and bind your captives with, hardening the stamina of what is so fleetingly true to the core of existence, the deprivation ends there and only yours remains.

Death fashion is out of style, and has been for a long long while, ever since the dawn of human should truth be told,

the petrified illusion of abusive control for fear of death, the selfinflicted horror of failing to experience the sanctitu of raw life, it never built a temple nor a home, let alone a loving bed, while death walks naked with the wind

The wind on the living wings of time ever revolving everevolving like dervishes and ballerinas,

The merry go round&round&round

In sattisfaction’s silly raucious laughter

Since curiosity has found itself to be

The source beyond belief,

Life the eternal questions…


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