I can’t escape low-paying jobs. No matter how long I stare at the horizon, I don’t see mountains protruding and growing and replacing clusters of trees.
My name fades in the minds of people who’ve already forgotten my face.
The planet, a sphere of rotting flesh, drowns us in the bile of the used and forgotten—and none of us can escape it.
Trapped in prisons within prisons, we dine on excrement and express thanks for the shit stuck in our teeth. Then we beg for attention from assholes shitting on us, crowning them with silver, gold, platinum while we dig bile from beneath our fingernails.
To return the Atman to Brahmin—the only means of escaping these prisons within prisons.
Melt away and the universe dissolves.
I can’t escape low-paying jobs. No matter how long I stare at the horizon, I don’t see mountains protruding and growing and replacing clusters of trees. Instead, with a noose of thorns around my neck, I dine on shit, thankful for the excrement clogging my throat.
Surrealist Daulton Dickey lives with his wife, kids, and pet human-lizard hybrid in a universe he created. He’s the author of Elegiac Machinations, Bastard Virtues, and Flesh Made World, Contact him at lostitfunhouse [at] gmail [dot] com