My blog goes to shit.

First pictures and now home-grown poetry. What's happening to my blog? It's becoming the mudane affair of every fourteen year old girl who has internet access!

Eh, what the hell... This poem is satire, not teen angst. And those pictures were cool!

I Wish I Was T.S. Elliot

Apply the psychographic agency to the outter thetawave
Without words winding winter when wherewithall
The triumph of sugared shakers on halowe'en
Forever implies the defeat of crayon marchers
Tables tacked on chairs stacked on tables ---
An illusion of illusions reflected in the invisble smokey mirrors found only in the dark.
But where are you?
Where are you?
Where do you think the king of social tyrrany built his forumalic fortress filled with the cheer of thousands of uselss voices filled with naught but... but... but what?
French fried potatoes grow out of concrete bunkers
Food fresh from frozen, packaged, produced, irradiated.
How can this sustain us for the thousands of seconds yet to come?
"Your bag is filled Mrs. Refuge. It is time to go."
But what sort of secret construction fills the hearst of days found empty through our self imposed isolation.
How can we reach out and find something---
Anything---
In this void we have created for ourselves
Schism scorned scissors switch snaggletoothed stealers of stealthy faith
Our dreary past drips forth through the eyeless vision of our ancestors
How can we make sense of it all?
Are you pretentious enough to pretend pondering purpose in this poem?
In short: Your Mom.