leave the front door open for the burglars to resist, lest they insist on breaking windows, bursting doors and breaking in.

dissolve no deity so dangerous as to counter love with fear, for he who dangles from a clothesline’s meant to dry in open air.

forego the speakers for a lamppost lighting streets below the sky which hangs like curtains ‘fore the window for to hide no fortune right.

disseminate the darkness and revolt against no tongue which speaks no fiction for your finely tuned piano as you drum on tables worn like jackets, tearing, that you wear and that you’ve worn though you were warned upon your purchase, they would never keep you warm.

suspect no agent of authority to author a memoir that would depict him as a casualty of the calm before the storm he set to tear apart your tepees, curse your tribe and flood the streets; destroy your hopes, destroy yours dreams…no, he only fabricates a scene in which an army marches past the buildings dry and falling fast as bombs explode from right to left leaving no purpose for no vest to shield no bullets fired at no enemy – they can’t retreat. there is no white flag to be seen flown from no ship upon no sea. no one proposing plans for peace.

no, he will be lying.
the drones continue flying.
it’s the rise of the machines.
.wolves all crying.
counting sheep.

sleep.