Double Negative

A dastardly snug coffin, dragging nails and heaving.  Furls in the forehead, tapping on the balcony and replacing tired vocabulary with new old words.  The hegemony of it is that our chitin isn’t heavy enough to sit and soak the eminence.  Our hearts are leaden pipes.  And our ruling line is that the half-life of the first nuclear blast is not yet finished, but we’ve been born late into today.  A ways away from actually believing the hammers can fall, instead duded up and following our dicks around.  Instead of rebels, relevant now in only a mid-shelf crescendoing wakefulness that rubbers aren’t fun and coming with the customers is out the way of Wheel-O-Fortune, antennae, and this is your brain on drugs.  That we can’t commit is no new sin.  That we sit inside over eggs and toast like our granddads did is a hope, though even as the shit gathers in worlds of other orders, we’ve only got this little bit.  If there’s an answer out there, we haven’t found its language.  If there is one true tyranny of the human race, it’s in that single breath between extremities, such that plots cusp.  Believing is a personal past time.  But no one sees that nothing coming, not when it’s up to us.