Break bread and imbibe with me on this auspicious eve. Let me weave for you an air of rusted strings and broken voice, a dulcet dirge to herald the passing of all things hale and comely. Draw close. It is in tones conspiring that I warble in the dark to the few ears yet to turn away.

These are days of incandescent mediocrity. The age of conviction lies behind us as a maiden defiled. Shame hangs palpably from our wet lips as we bequeath the embers to progeny destined to feast on naught but the bitter fruit of our malaise. This is no song of hope.

Our once beautiful tongue has been usurped by the depraved and unhinged. It was not the violence of lusty battle or the failed, overreaching arc of our desperate pursuit of beauty that ferried the corpse to our door. The truth is far less palatable. We simply ceased to care. Let the mighty halls of time reverberate with our apathetic mumbles.

They do not love us, our new masters. That much is writ large amongst the letters of disdain their hackneyed machine spews forth. The machine voices the mouth, and the mouth has no eyes to appreciate its disabuse. The incessant drone of failed intellect pervades the ether like a wet fart while we quibble over the rights of the pygmies of measured thought. The sadness, the all-consuming idiocy would drive a monkey spare.


About Gibbot

Normal working Joe. Occasional musician and writer. Avid reader and political tragic. Humanist. View all posts by Gibbot

4 responses to “Interlude

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