Primitive

Let society retrogress deranged as

The feral wings of a fossilized bird,

I just want to be primitive, mortal

Painted in clay and calcite, half

Undressed, dread-locked, and vital

To the universal infrastructure

=

Unplugged from the android collective

I want to exist in a time where demons

Stand, not behind a mantel of human flesh

But outside of a simple ring of salt, in a

Time measured by the saturation of the sky

And the vertical momentum of lupine-dwelling

Meadows. I want my heart to be the place

Most visited and the rains to absolve sin

By the cleansing of pollutions that never

Penetrate the core or harden over the face

Like the maniacal funhouse masks of pretend

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I want to be innocent, holy cradled by the

Chesire grin of an impartial moon, in shades

Of grey where the sentient inherently lay. I

Want to be imperfect, to fail blessed by the

Chance to try again. In this heathen temple

Shaped by the deeds of my own hands close

To the mother of ten thousand things I want

To scream on my deathbed that I have lived

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