Icarus Burning; Untitled 1

they're singing their songs of carthage, and it reminds me of you.

the rich parade in their death chamber chic; peaked caps and jack boots and emaciated ribs and typhoid, they lead the poor to ovens of their own.

the poor will feed the hounds while the masters starve themselves.

he pulled a horse carcass over a rusting bicycle and said he was inventing a rape machine, he said he was a doctor because he wore a long white coat.

they sold the land they used to walk amongst the stars.

the report said that productivity soared in the weeks following an office suicide; management are currently meeting to decide who goes first.

i cut a hole in my forehead, lay back and closed my eyes, and stared at the sun all morning. it looks to be a beautiful day.