These days
Are of endless novelty,
Absurdly modern:
High profits for the ones
Who trick passion with
Morsels of jittery confections—
Fast melting, quickly expiring.
Highly. Profiting.
Age of sensational Spasm,
Locked behind which, a long dusty
Book of delayed shame,
Regretfully nostalgic.
We cannot perceive the reality
of how we arrived upon
This existential wilderness,
Whilst being too busy
Occupying our conscious,
Shunning The Truth;
Rather to take it all
Up the Ass—
Than to bite real Peaches,
Causing them to Gush,
To Spew and Bleed—
The Sticky Juice
of Act and Consequence,
Pleasure and Pain,
Dispute and Acceptance:
Will We Ever
Relearn to open up
that rusty chamber,
Neglectfully sealed in our Hearts,
and refill its long-emptied
Reservoir to the Brim
with True Essence and Blood?
Particular Moments 