Lord-Karsus

She is my blessing She is my curse A dualistic stigmata that sets me apart. Like a big fish in a small pond I am stunted Limited in growth and movement In what I can and can not do But I would never trade it away Despite the difficulties she hands me, for Cutting off the wings of an angel Is a most heinous of crimes The wolf who runs against the grain of the pack May find himself alone; stranded; isolated But, he has the satisfaction that he plodded on On his own volition And did not blindly follow the consensus of the majority

The ghosts of ages past Clash with silent regression Existing concurrently on separate wavelengths A contracting dualistic nature That both defines and unravels her Fùtbol and reggaetón Reign now on Sandy's lot The latter a name with no meaning Аптека and borshch In the shadow of the Q Converted by the kabob, a slowly dying breed 86th Street and Avenue U Cannot stand in the face of human waves Ay! Oh! Fugheddaboudit The 50's flight to Lawn Guyland Left Bed-Sty, Flatbush, Crown Heights, and others With any set identity, in and of itself a badge of multiculturalism Yet, as the world

Life is a carcinogen Every moment leading towards oblivion Down the road leading to death we head A cancer of tales and places, people and things Growing on the Self Remove the tumor Remove the cancer Remove the disease Release the Self. When we lose ourselves, we gain the Self Through the Self, we truly become Finally begot, we are And only then can we be

Who are these thoughts that haunt me at night, using sickly sweet words to preach the nihilistic gospel of steel meeting flesh? Are they constructs manufactured by the artificial moods that claimed many a life of the past masters? Or is it really me tired of an existence mired in disappointment a once bright star dimmed now nothing more than a celestial afterthought?