| Tagged and ID’d. |
| You don’t have to seek it out. |
| No mystery. |
| Who could mistake
|
| these blocks all razed by miscreants eschewing any chance of laying low?
|
| That’s the mark, the modus. |
| I sighed and did due diligence
|
| This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts in training
|
| «Thoughts laced with magma. |
| Diluted lucidic expressions violently erupt,
|
| with acidic intentions-bleeding outside the lines, colouring the pages of the
|
| mind.»
|
| Streaks let you find yourself. |
| What couldn’t be torn bends in echo to the blows.
|
| Debris let you plot yourself. |
| I’d bet that path maps pentagrams for roads
|
| Woes let you find yourself. |
| Shrieks ricochet throughout some metadata hell’s
|
| parsed charts. |
| Some poor schlub surveyor melts their face, ark-style,
|
| with one glance
|
| This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts. |
| You could only miss this
|
| corpse when distracted by those corpses there
|
| Diffuse the surprise, or catch it with purpose. |
| Disruption’s the ride that
|
| bucks off its riders
|
| That’s not the thunder to the sides. |
| Your wreck of an engine is alight,
|
| strewn through these crowded lanes. |
| You shake until it’s ended: a work of art,
|
| wreckage like genius blown apart. |
| I’m so in awe of it, yet still I can’t
|
| regret what I haven’t the nerves for. |
| Egress on the blast. |
| Godspeed you bastard |