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Schaivo is a white man's decoy "I had supposed that intellectuals frequently loved truth, but I found here again that not ten percent of them preferred truth to popularity. " - Bertrand RussellSchaivo is a white man's decoy by ~polanskigropedme
Right now there is some huge debate over the life of Terry Schaivo. They say it is a total travesty that her life will be "taken." They say her husband only wants the insurance money. They say the parents deeply love her and want her to live life feeding off a tube, while Florida drains millions of dollars a year on her. I thought this was very amusing that the Republicans seemed so deeply touched by this tragic case. Bullshit. Let me point out a few points to begin with:
it fell into hell I wish you had been there. I kept clutching my throat hoping to feel the pulse. I suppose it came and left without leaving a note on my door. I suppose it felt used, tired, and comatose. I suppose I felt used, tired, and comatose. I can't blame it for departing. I can only blame it for leaving me no replacement. I wish you were woven into me as we so hoped we would be. Our tapestry is incomplete and words drop casually, often without sentiment. I put on an apron and pretended it was home, but it merely caught the tears leaking from my stricken soul. I said to myself, "Home doesn't exist." I replied, "Can't I dream it could?" I didn't respond.it fell into hell by ~polanskigropedme
Uniform sickness Cheap Trick plays on the record player and my hand clutches the tip of a vodka bottle for one more night. My pseudo alcoholic thrills were birthed from a mother's hips, but her name has faded and so has my soul. The joke is passed ritually that this is the solution to the inflicted suburban plight; the isolation within plastic wrapped uniformity, but as my eyes slowly spin inward the solution is spewed from me like rejected propaganda. So then, what becomes of the struggle? It is blanketed in false comfort. I must beseech you to no longer call me by my name for my spirit is hollow, my pulse is weak, and in my attempt to escape these desolateUniform sickness by ~polanskigropedme
society is dead. the wailing of maternal skeletons;society is dead. by ~polanskigropedme
their breath unable to keep their lock-eyed children human.
they, leaving their nails un-cut,
to dig the worms from comatose eyes.
I, in a slump, corrode in the mass
and the pump of my wilted heart seethes blood into my mouth.
My finger, frigid in touch, quivers on your lips
and my last breath is suicidal surrender.
Sta.sh
