Perpetual objectivism, a poem

Purple laboradors      

Lounging in the French breezeway,

Complimenting the entrails left behind

By the gleaming soul architect,

The Roarks in our age of Keatings

That build only to keep building

Even if it means bearing the soulless ostrich of manufactured architect’s bleatings that echo beyond bland blocks designated for those manipulated to find security in reveling in scenic monotone and disregard pleasure as defilement of the flesh

Gushers of my Haribo heart

Fall to the marble with every trudge past the New York Times

As it blows through the streets of what I hope to be time yet I bleed to be endless

Beliefs aren’t what you want them to be, they are what you feel you can’t escape