The Futurist Manifesto

No One Believes in Love

The concrete carcass glitters
brilliant under the lens;

heaving, we become an ocean
of faceless cigarette butts
        and pennies on tails.

Dead lines drape the posts
where we crucified saviors
and communication.

All voices should be heard
        above the clamor
        of all these voices
that should be heard.

Olive branches clip our wings,
        flee to mountaintops;
                        the air taken
                exhaling drugs,
        hope and cancer.

You paint me every shade of gray,
seal my eyes with your tongue,
        pry open my lips,
        a tell-tale heart
and a crowbar thumb;

                You told me
        the weight of the sky,
                laden with thrones,
        will always be too much
        for our eyes to hold.

Catharsis as a cadence.
 

        Laudanum for Sale

The concrete carcass shimmers
inviting under the lens;

drowning, we become static hum,
        cities' last broadcast,
                a deeper dream.

        Ink hallucinations,
sunspots you could set your watch to;

        progress postmortem,
momentum of the passionately passive;

        Send me out onto the paths,
scatter thoughts unto the wind,
a moon setting over my shoulder
        and feet pacing fig roads
where trees wilt in solemn worship.

        They never told me
heaven was built by heathens;
                the only way through
gates of righteousness and pearls:
                        kill the self. kill the self.
                        be reborn, kill yourself.

To desire fame is to prefer
dying scorned than forgotten.

"I've been dying all my life"
I speak, tonguing ashes around
                a mouthful of desire,
"life is just an imitation of art -
        I am the modern canvas.”

You paint me every shade of black,
stay my eyes with your tongue,
                you seal them shut,
that I may take the time
        to clearly see.

Antithesis as an art-form.
 

                Sky Burial

The concrete carcass unravels
violent under the lens;

        skies moving sideways,
wine anointing the brow of
        the chosen, one
        rotting     apple;

        a dropped needle,
                the abandoned
        monophony, phonographs
                running in circles -

The sun dawns a shroud of mourning,
billboards alight, twisted metals dancing
        interpretive fever dreams in drag.

You paint me every shade of fire,
stroke me across the skyline,
        tie your lips in mine
double knot and pull me tight.

        Look deep into my eyes,
                you kill me thrice;

drag the knife across my skin,
        set my soul alight.

Music as meditation.
 

                I am Love

Indefinite space reaches out;
                through your being,
        space translates the world.

The rains carry you back to sea.

                You told me
        the weight of the sky,
                laden with stars,
        is never too much
        for my eyes to hold.

Paint me every shade of white,
        bread, salt and grease
                seal our tongues.

Art is just an imitation of an imitation,
        the soul mining the void.

                reflect,
                repose,
                repeat.

1% of all TV and radio static
is relic sound from the Big Bang.

_{these piece exists in the form it wanted to be in thanks to the incredible feedback from @geekorner and @geke of the @isleofwrite.}

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