"Plantation of Irrational Confusion, Empty Cans, and Their Unpolished Illusions"

Trivial combative plantation,
outruled numerical deprivation,
bare-assed exponential terracotta massage.

Straight mind-controlled shooters
and contemporary reinvented groomed overstimulated passage.

Unprovoked gelatinous deer
And robust unhinged headlights,
Cold-blooded but sentient homage.

Displaced, naked, small-minded rage,
Those who don’t know, can’t understand —
They’re already trapped inside Dr. Jekyll’s cage.

Silver and gold no longer ring — it’s some new packaging,
somewhere where the black street meets laughter,
a beardless pirate guards his lustful sin,
seduced apathetic joy or lucky petty-bourgeois,
deeply exhausted disaster.

Society is normalized a bit faster,
hunted stone and blood-dripping carpenter
are revealing the shapeless caster.

Where are we... is it five or six...
what should we throw into this quecking mix?
In the dark of visual impregnation,
a veal-like clatter echoes.
Every war, in the crater of its seismic unrest,
has its duplicated, dubious test — a racket.

Models made of blood and flesh collapse,
must be some new charming wind — can you hear it?
Something wicked and bloodthirsty blows outside...
Many will, with no issue, happily go deaf to it,
many will lose their provoked, fucked-up little souls.
Worlds slowly and forever crash into each other.

Does reality from the other side ever truly wonder?

Atomic from the left, atomic from the right,
encounters of the fourth kind —

Are you?
Is your heart so demonstrably blind?

Headless planes circling in rhythm on preset laurels.
Do they understand each other?
What do they want to kill?
All eyes are on the table,
all redacted dices are in for the lacking thrill.
Do their loud tongues supernaturally smolder
in the peace of the world?

Why do all rockets misfire,
and all — all strikes so bitterly cold?

Who is the vile enemy,
and who’s on the postal line — hello, comrade!
Can it go faster, maybe a bit longer,
before those with sand in their heads forever sniff us out?

The vile, metal-colored rain falls,
while many wither amid an economically, sexually charged drought.
Surely they won’t now sue us with black fairies too?

Why don’t they hear us?
They were supposed to serve us headlessly.
What are these new, firm, consciously-built homes?

There is no sold anger,
nothing spilling greedily in a spontaneous flood.
The black swan became the most beautiful maiden —
what will become of us if she learns to sing beautifully?

How many hybridly sharpened schemes remain?
Is this the last confusingly irrational theme?

Hospitable rain is falling…
fog of dead hands is suspiciously calling.

It’s not rain,
but boiling stage fright — and her karma.

Can you feel the cathartic lust in free falling?

That’s how it is, my seagull,
Somber cloud fairing Deagel.
Now you’re here,
and one day, you (all) will be gone.

Enter the Black Sonne,
its pursuit without regular regenerating phone.
Now that is one seriously fucked-up scheme —
hourglass in space without executive theme.
Maybe she doesn’t want to wait any longer,
maybe it’s her time — let her sing dizzyingly.
Cathedral of last straight Unibomber.

What does that beauty need your tasteless stage fright for?

Joy — true joy — is rain without terminal rage.
And over there… none of you are needed by anyone.

In time we all must turn the page…
even the all-seeing zeitgeist of zombified sage.