Byline: Saké in the Sun

Buford Youthward

Your songs, your poems are just flashes of dreams, the conscious tickling the subconscious.

Loveless, bloodless, this mere blip of existence isn't a game, a contest, a test to find meaning rather to make something meaningful.

Rise to try and be the cream of the crop. Don't settle on being the skin on the pudding, the water on top of the yogurt.

Some people need to be free to decide who they want to be, others wouldn't know what to do with the freedom if they had it. Of course those are the same people who scream they are free as far as their leash allows.

The sound of cicadas against the dying sun sends this hero howling. I ape the greats and like a great ape escape flinging a cape of good will.

I text my confession for sins I'm possessing. Anxious and insecure, searching for something pure, you only have to be half a punk to know art for art's sake is a fake.

For evils' sake, lets sink some saké in the hot sun. Let the juices of the shit you don't like simmer with the juices of the shit you do like. Then let the subconscious settle.

A knowing that goes without saying keeps spinning. My stitches are real, yet all old wounds must heal. I'm just a fool playing in the game of love, navigating desires to possess and desires to avoid.

I practice immolation by drinking wine from a coffee cup. I made my pact with a pack of werewolves so I strip off pretension, snap my fingers and stop the world.

Everybody is somebody's vicarious rock star. We envy the green grass but not the labor and effort to make the grass so green.

When it's over, all remains are just remnants of memories. Make sure there's something left of you for future generations to smoke.

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