A Conspiracy in Practice, Not Theory


Enough to make those who run stand still, as • if what you #hashtag were only a game, disemboweled • movements gagging an indigestion of mixed intentions whose foulest • motives your hands dare not name, absent-haloed saints caught • up in the moment, hiding behind a dangerous playful • symbol, the seal of Agares, under whose influence your • idol’s hands tarry unashamed, ruled over by dukes whose • armies of rebukes against you in your foolishness you • fools let reign, these sultry desolate places you visit • are all only unclaimed domains unchained angels when faced • with mortal will avoid like the plague it is • every entity in heaven thinks you carry, that contagion • your brazen shell’s filthy vessel contains, your heart a • cracked bell veins dive deep into only to find • the way sin uses to spill deeper into hell, • resounding infamy can be made to stand still, pause • for a second if opinion is willing to listen • •


to feelings tell how unwell fame has made you • feel, you and I could bury their indignation, make • it right now, turn a station into a situation, • a conspiracy in practice, not theory, wrest from this • isolation’s havoc a better tragedy than its bitter scene • scored by unseen forces to the tortured chorus of • our vanity’s voices performing pities for apathies of captive • audiences, pouring forth what no one else ever wanted • to hear in the first place, that we are • worth more than what we let others think we • should beg them for and never get, not incredulous • or sick, just a skeptic that the way we • live is enough of a threat for them to • deny us love, that we deserve being relegated to • this wasteland where trash and treasure remains inseparable, insufferable, • unseparated, how I miss you as much as I • miss life before the Internet began killing us off.