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Lullaby for a Fatal Mutation.

Man up
or whatever. Wake up.
Look at that.
Think about it

without breaking down
crying at best:
at worst?

Killing yourself.

Bite the bullet,
feel pearly whites shatter
as you fucking swallow it.

So bitter.
So damn bitter.

Nothing new
under the sun.
In these cool shadows
we sit: gazing
at the past,
masturbating
to, regurgitating…

All and everything.

Sticky fingers
for the highest ratings.

We just capitalize
on what has
already been done.
Proven reliable.
It isn’t broke,
so clearly:

run, run,
run it into
the fucking ground.
The Sure Thing,

same ‘ol shit (brand
new, just
in, exponentially-rising),
bigger pile:

all or nothing.

That vague monomyth?
Just Campbell digging
too deep, giving
us too much credit.

It was not
nearly enough.
We always want the details,
comfort of familiarity,
rhythm of echoes:

an illusion
of the tempo
of life…

Remakes, reboots,
renditions and prequels,
the old band
is always getting
back together:

the past
is dead and gone
and here and now,
eyes towards
the future,

we strangely identify
with the yesterday,
the upwind…

We have become
a culture
of nostalgia.

History:
our narcissistic
doomsday
lullaby.

Extinction’s anesthesia

for life’s fatal
mutation.

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