the senseless crime

i just want to understand. this is me trying to understand. forgive me, because amidst these phenomena beyond my scope events i can’t fathom, i’m trying, reacting, bleeding like all the rest, crying like all the rest, trying to make sense of the shit that’s like a bullet-fed spanish flu. a boy made of ivory pulls back the slide of an m16 (thinks ar-15’s are lame, not cool anymore, maybe). test-fires into dirt make soil bleed–no one hurt. exhilaration / glee / excitement / power. fuck. horror of happiness.

bullets counted in death tolls becoming barely juicy enough for the news ticker, maybe they need bigger kills, bigger explosions, to care? not even bothering to point fingers anymore just retweet ban all guns we’re good nothing done the bodies fall more & more blood splattered on the barrel like camo unlock from call of duty–maybe battlefield. not a video game though, they know they’re killing, that the blood’s not pixels, they feel the warmth between their fingers. the boy goes to sleep sunk into the room of Black Sabbath posters viscera beginning to flicker in/out of perception on his face already. tomorrow we all get what’s coming.

express the power in a fit of disappointing glory what’s left: blood trails and corpses, what else? dip the muzzle in the puddles but now its time to die, something scary about someone dancing so willingly into the void. had more than my share of fantasies to tango my way into death, and i can’t avoid it when Randy Stair blows holes in coworkers inside a world that rejected them before the ultrasound, journals laced in genderfuck. i know in another parallel timeline blipping in and out of existence with cycles of the Large Hadron Collider, i am Randy Stair, bringing two shotguns so if one jams i can still die at a pace, loading slugs into the chamber. awake, boy of the once-precious eats breakfast, hand movements in synchronicity with his victims already. the tragedy begins to manifest in slow motion hours prior, like a storm brewing in the distance unstoppable vague dread black stuck in the blue.

is it the infamy? to look up from hell and see your name & face scrolling the news feed well they took that away but the journos gotta talk about it still so if that’s the case i think people are still rending flesh because they know they did it, but thats not all probably. vanity rarely trumps hatred in the soul i think. sure he wants everyone to know the score but maybe only half so he can feel like a badass the other half so he can stick a blade into earth’s gut a little and twist for all the abandonment all the isolation all the bullets he felt lodged in his own head over the years. pilot of a dying plane he’s got his pact with the devil to carry out now in too deep in too fucked. pull that slide back and its all over from here on out, no going back, why don’t they ever go back?

that X factor nonsense. it’s nonsense. we only swim so hard before we drown. everyone’s afraid. i’m afraid. i weep at body counts too, however much i wish the wound would scar over already. but we’re not getting anywhere when we mutate these people away from ourselves grant them unreachable demonism the more bodies keep piling up because we always ask what flicked the “switch” not even able to find the “switch” since we keep convincing ourselves only a few of us are demonic enough to have a “switch” in the first place. the boy takes his first shot, screams, smoke, gunpowder, flesh. the smell of battle but there’s no fighting it, pure slaughter, evil coursing thru and corruption in the blood. we need to fight it. we need to look it in the eyes. we need to be willing to look at ourselves and realize: we’ve all got a little bit of demon in us, internally, and we should think about how that evil awakes itself within a person. we’re all made of ivory, its trash upon the ground. look at how our darker thoughts, desires, the fantasy turns real for the people who get so isolated lines blur into nothing. but everyone’s afraid to let the angels know–doesn’t matter if the angels were dead before we ever stepped off of Africa.