Mors ontologica:
A pastiche of A Scanner Darkly by Philip K. Dick
Death starts, substance
talking with bugs
fucking the fruit pies of old ladies
Amount of death in a day
- a self-biography written by another,
an imitation of life
scanning times gone and yet to be
8, 9,
be sure your sins will find you out
Faces of layers, layers of faces
with a slush of the corpus callosum
the world is the white of a Rorschach
Make good, make do, make time
give her blue flowers
before the soul-sickness
- a fucking loud silencer
Are you not what you are not
Is there anybody to judge outside your shadow,
you as the shadow, the shadow as you
killing the harmless things
Step in and we'll record
super secret police surveillance
Death in the food chain between man and god
men of good fortune
imposters
posing
as posers of frauds
Subatomic narcs in the suffocating grip
Death remains hidden below your feet
sending yourself mail to the afterlife
- Grave, where is thy victory?
His artifacts, on the tape, along with the Ayn,
with a Merlot;
an eternity of sins
Death may be one of them
Rewind and edit yourself out
change death to life,
the sins of summer bloom in the spring
(the spring of blue)
wait for the past
shoot up shoot down
without the silencer they won't see
we shall not all sleep
death isn't
here
Pain of Death, Death of Pain
Pain of death, Death of pain
versions of words are versions of the past
blood tests for impurities of the mind
an endogenic death
speaks of futures already here
seeing you seeing darkly
Your complement stands in for you
organic damage as the cause
Death is swallowed down in victory
a life in cryptology
look up and see how you fall
Off everything
find your mind
mors ontologica
death begins
do
w
n
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