Words from a flowing faucet.
C.P. a brother.
“Heed the Prophets, Heed the Poets”
Heed the prophets.
The end of civilizationis upon us.
Their words are upon bathroom stalls.
Their words are in the signature lines of group emails.
They speak to us from the grave.
Their souls are stretched out over time.
Sacrificing sobriety and credibility to catch a glimpse of the future.
Shunned and derided for being canaries in coal mines.
Practical pariahs putting forth possibility.
Mystical meat driving a flock away from madness.
Heed the Poets.
Line and meter in constant repetitious flow.
Metaphor before understanding.
Grasp their intent, devour it.
Regurgitate it forged in fire.
Touch the tips of all the unlit candles,
So that they may burn.
Word-weapons wielded against the growing apathy of consumerism.
Deadened senses need resurrection.
Beat, Slam, Read-Riot, Chapper,