Funky Feelings
You are what you eat: meta, fat, processed flesh, genetically enhanced to so called "perfection." Perfection is bullshit along with many thinbgs on this earth... except for a couple of things that I like... like octopus, mustard, and cheese... I think there's a ghost in my room sometimes, shaped like those little buffalo mozarella balls. It whispers to me at night, secrets about life as buffalo excretions. That's what she said. She said not to forget her, love me or hate me, but don't negate me. Becase we beed Mother Earth, but she needs us too. She doesn't really need us... we just rape her constantly to the point where she bleeds dirty, toxic, polluted blood. But the truth... she is the shit, like Pallas Athena or that butterfly I saw at Chiflón that became one with the pile of dogshit. Just do it, I'm lovin' it, have it your way, make a run for the border. With so many things telling you how to feel, act, think, you should run, run to the edge of insanity and jump the fuck off your pedestal while you're at it. We will not mourn the loss of mental health. ABCs, 123s, black-white, up-down, left-right, right-wrong, meet me down and to the left, I'll be your heart if you'll be my soul. But I'm not even sure if I own my own soul. How can we even be sure that it still remains inside of us. It frightens me when I walk past an incredibly painful sight and I feel nothing but funky.
