simple life irina
All the Money or the Simple Life Honey
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Dear Corporation
I don't know how to
say how I feel politely, or poetically, or
without the jugular and collapse of the
immediate heart, so tonight, I won't
say anything at all. Just stare out the
window at our stunned little writhe. Hold
back the strongest urge to knock out a
few of the capitol's most critical walls,
replace its fiber optic cables with
lightning bugs, replace the investment
bankers all with bunker busters. I lock
eyes with the capitol's bright and empty
rooms and admit that, sometimes,
deep in my affluent, American cells, I
miss my body carved to projectile. I
miss trebuchet shoulders and knuckles
flaked to arrowheads, miss my hands
massive and molded from molten to
the bolts of ballistas. I miss blackjack
and cudgel and quarterstaff and
flintlock. I miss pummel and pike and
I am not proud of this. I know it's not a
healthy feeling. I try to un-arm, to un-
cock. I try to practice my breathing. I
try The Master Cleanse, The Stationary
Bike, The Bikram Sweat, The Contortion
Stretch, The Vegan Meatloaf, The Nightly,
Scorching Bath, The Leafy Greens and
Venom Television, The Self-Mutilation of a
Winter's Run, but we can only cleanse
our bodies so much before we realize
it's not our bodies that need detoxing.
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