Self-appointed judiciaries of counterculturecomplain the twelve steps I take are cultish& I should blame total administered society.Well I’m not so sure but I know loving ourselves militantly from not-being grotesque,misanthropic with self-sabotage. We foundthat fourth dimension insightful to disavowcapital, its benthos. I pick up more resentmentsfrom the unregulated newsreels.I can communicate today and deep the painwithout a blind code, scabrous or rusticated.You need to know how much I resent the worldfor its beauty is right at my throat burningaway my tobacco skin. I am decayed in floodsheld perishable by extraction’s funk in the seasas nuclear excrement defenestrates coevalsof contrarian data, all those staccatos of denial.I reach out as worldliness ready to throw awaymy dissolute self-turned hurricane to disaster’smanhandled future opened on the returned past.I’m sick of fighting currents, toxic with our needof currency & hope for revolution. It is too lateto be stuck at a party putting apathy to rightsor knelt at your altar praying for an easy day.                                O this scene of death.                                The clouds are full of lightning,                                we are the wired.