Careerism Cassandra

In a cool, dry, place, unkempt:
holding a hospital in yr claw, what should be holding you.

Stop, tether, stop. We don't walk so good.
Staggered amongst recordings, seeded and dead,
proceed to dive, without warmth.

I've gotten nowhere with these moans,
these nighttime initials.
Tumbling feelings, parasitic infections, burrowed in seagrass,
shivering between blades,
coming home to sand and a shell I expected to grow into.

But the flesh does not move unless by dragging, unless by wolves.
I do not grow myself,
Tumors don't diagnose, the plugging does.

Fix and kill, fix and kill, you can't plug a home because we do not rescue behaviour. Behaviour satisfies within cages. we do not monitor you.
They'll feed us to the dogs, Cassandra. ou'll eat yrself and I'll rattle through the howls...so fucking depressing, so fucking depressing. Fix us. Kill us. Stop. Tether. Stop.x
Bodies in a cool dry place, classified, and never known.