if future were a bag on my back
the straps would melt my shoulders through
and I’d still scramble to hold it between my knees
because where does a Molotov cocktail land you?
certainly behind the psychiatric ward cell
where the other knows even more truth than you do
so you puff up your chest
and will your fingers to relax
how hard can it be to let go of half of your purpose
when the other half ceases to be in its presence
maybe this was meant to be
an empty hand is scary to them when the other could hold a knife
rich cars don’t stop in the middle of the highway for beggars
with a shoe mark on my chest
and cockroaches in ears
I carry on as if the world is not set on psychedelics
my hand still clenched
this dimension feels broken
a couple of keys missing from my Harmonium
I worship it not play
like life is romanticised because living is fucked
isn’t it?
you read more because you agree
my hand still clenches the bomb
but my arms are on the floor
did you not imagine
what happens
when the straps melt my shoulders through
in the 3rd grade English subtitles of Netflix
I found my hatred for the context-less
how are you unhaunted?
intellect is being erased, people are being blown up, hands with cocktails are getting severed
how could you generate Ghibli art?
~ Aru Shan
Aru Shan 