p a s s e n g e r

I.

chaos exists
but I didn’t start it, the perpetual motion
Isn’t it nice to be inside, calves not shaking
the electric warm inside
it was said under the pavement lies the beach
under your mask lies your face
under your clothes—pulse, genitalia
these two become one in the fuck
a beautiful reason to live:
to jump in puddles
so everyone in the vicinity is a player in the game
take your shoes off
the mountains are dark and stony
the forest: a tangled maze of million ways to get lost
the dirt’s warm
We’ve crossed the bridge
Observation: televisions are watched, not stars
the need to do something, some thing, anything
help me please
the switch is broken; I’m terrified of the dark 
this system would profit off of selling us ropes to hang ourselves with
if we were in such desperation. 

II.

can we reject the overtly provided nuisance of planning another day?
is it possible to burn the seconds, days, minutes, days, and years
which record our lives in their arrogant definitiveness?
It’s hard to carry a torch and have it be effective
when the whole world is a big fucking light bulb.
Suggestion: cut the wires, let’s make bracelets and necklaces
“All that was once directly lived has become mere representation”
we are spectators
we watch it go by
I ran into the glass wall many times trying to get to the trees and flowers outside,
and the blood trickling down my face told me I was looking too far in the future.
“This is the best moment of your life, man, and you’re missing it”
And for what?
A self inflicted deadline
when we could be riding the pulse.