plight of the onion

light in the gutter and garbage in the living room. Xanax in the water and ground fat streaming through. You can't wash filth off with a rag. The slime that comes through with that twinkling sky in the background and hums of fans and glowing tubes persecute. Sodium in the belfry. One day I will say there were men who told me everything I knew but only I could teach myself to do. One day this note will disappear into nothingness unlike the nothingness in notes kept from more important men than me. The trailblazers who burnt their way through the shit and the scum while I waded on the surface. Its a sad thing about death, going under, unable to flap out the little waves that shake the boats and move the roots. Everything gold is so because of us coming together, that beautiful stone and many beautiful things lay waste to those that could come, whose beauty is being untouched. All that is has been touched. Soon there will be no hunters left, soon the mad men in the slaughter houses wont feel the pain anymore, as if they do now. Soon the whores on main street will be elevated to goddesses and the bee keepers out of jobs. They will be growing edible slime on chicken wire in laboratories, not quite the soilent dream we fear, but we already live that dream. All things are created equal, die equally as well. Even the plants succumb to the maker. Don't give up, but why even try.