I'm thinking maybe we should end tonight early, while everything's still on a high note.

You call that a high note.

Everything is high to me.

You said it, not me.

You may as well have said it.

I supplemented it.

You,

Are a temporary fix for a permanent problem

Art on my wall,

And a star on my walk—

A room full of boredom,

A clause in a contract

No more than just

Four words,

All of four letters,

All perfect.

Why the pause?

I've been

Looking at this show

As if it were a box of darkness

Waiting to be unlodged

From my corpse,

Or rather, even

Sarcophagus,

As it were,

The words and characters had formed

Over me, more like a storm

Though I had submerged under the surface

Only to learn that I had

Learned that somehow

I could breathe under water

And stay there forever,

If I wanted,

A shadow of showmanship,

The fear of being further pursecuted

For having infinitely discovered such inspiration

In such an offhand

Person

Sure, not as eloquent as my usual entries,

But this soliloquy,

I beg of you—

Is more of syllables

You see?

I have hatred in my heart

That has flowered into my mind

As some sort of algorithmic cursemark

Where hereunto

Even Google taunts me;

Reminding me of my own failure,

Sure of all my debts,

Ugliness, and lack of money

Assuring that I will

Probably never

Make it in show business.

I'm drained just sitting here, still and surrounded by

The working clsss cotezens

Who parade around as if

Doing something noteworthy

By feeding the machine

And playing along

With the recfomensations

Of doctors

Sponsored by pharmaceutical companies

And invested in politicians

With racist policies and intentions

To exterminate psychologically

Only the brownest and brazen enough

To know better than

To follow the orders of

A robotic and problematic

—I'll stop you there

It's three syllables. What are they

I'll think on it under warm water

And hope that this 8 year old scar

Is unswollen

By nightfall tomorrow.

—it's a curse, or what?

No, it's the government .

The laws of karma affect all power and control beyond a magicians natural limitations and inhibitions.

Just for shits and giggles,

They planted the demons

The shamans,

And all of the actors

They bought out

The psychological terrorism

Began when she had indeed

Fallen by his hand—

A fist at best

But may have as well been

The bullet of a gun.

She spoke openly of social reform

And affordable housing,

Equality,

And economically priced produce.

—so they tried to murder her—

On numerous occasions

But couldn't.

They started a war

With a mother

Who never believed in nothing

And had lost

Children

To God itself.

They waged war with an army of robots

Using telephone service

And terms of agreement

They sent stalkers

Who spoke of shamans

And acted like demons

Agents who

Remembered

The names of people

Past

And present

None forgotten

Witnesses to what had happened

Burned notebooks

And credibility clauses.

God never forgot her

But often brought warnings

Of those that had come for her

They painted a picture of mental illness and poverty,

And with every hope,

Forced the suicide

Knowing that she'd leave her son a fortune—

—but had not known,

The gold was of the fools type—

As was his father.

The barrel of the gun

Was the punching bag

And the thinking horns

The slamming doors

$49 Dollar whores

And interceptions of brainwaves

The assasination

Was purely a psychological thriller—

The will had an omen

That no money

Would fall to the hands of

The man

Who had hurt her

In front of her sons.

So the world went on

Without a mother

Or without a God

As they all had worshipped

The opposite for so long

That true love

Has become

Obsolete

—like an old iPhone

With a broken screen

As a metaphore

For generation Z

Her body was the equivalent

Of the thing you don't need

But once used daily

And couldn't have gone anywhere

Without it

A suicide seemed

The only way

To escape the debt

And the only thing

She used to love

Was music

Now,

Just like her son

It was just a job—

And the worst part was

Both things

Cost too much

To afford it

The legend continues

With having to record everything—

When the recording stops

The world attacks

And anxiety takes over everything

Once she starts to sing

The people start coughing

The lights start flashing

The doors start slamming

And the name of her son's father

Whispers over and over

Like the sound of her mother popping gum

And sighing eggaderatedly in agony.

It's a competition

On a planet

With 8 billion people

Who all believe that

(((Whatever they believe))

And it must be true.

It's a competition

On a planet

With I billion people

Who all believe that

(((God)))

It must be

-Ū.

I didn't come here to be a messiah

Or leave tire marks

With my scuffed up Nikes

Rounding the corner

Out of Whole Foods market

Like I stole something

Only to come

Back to the office

To be greeted by shopping carts full of garbage

Bad music on low quality speakers

And trash under

All of the ugly parked cars

On the sidewalk

White girls will boycott this series

Because of how honest I am

About how toxic they are

With their microexpressions

And arrogance

In public.

(It's just race-relations.)

Where am I?!

Apparently, I'm a vegetable in a coma.

Right…

So you won't just mind if I—

No, not at all.

Focus shifting is an aspect of multidimentionality in which a subject becomes perceptionally hyper focused with a seperate intention from previous projects or interests in order to better develop the consistency and understanding of the overal idea or process of creating, designing, building, or adding to various tasks and projects, with the overall realization that focus shifting to enhance the quality or oucome of one process may increase the likelihood of success in another— a more long-term of understanding multitasking, the in depth nature of focus shifting requires the extention of a project within the circumstantial purpose of completing or building on another, with the intention to return to the original task or subject with further tools, understanding, and conceptual awareness of the completed concept on a broad spectrum.

vent, baby keem

(Happy Accidents Remix)

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 |

THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.