[rage. vitriolic, venomous, eating through skin and into your soul.]

no.
this is a rejection. of you.
you, you with your middle class no-deposit-no-return throwaway morals, your salvation at the end of a nicotine sticks, your escape made by turning off your mind, your eyes open yet veiled, your senses dulled by pay-as-you-go relationships made in the here and now for times you'll never remember again because you were in too deep to even realize there was something to see.
you with your liberation found in the drivers seat of a humvee, your eyes hungry with lust at the sight of each new opportunity to simultaneously be here but look there, you with your fucking washing machines and full range of appliances, your home loans, your shiny new cars, your new shades hiding your eyes because you can't even look me in the eye anymore. what are you hiding? are you hiding from the man who died across that stretch of water when someones patience ran out and they exploded? are you hiding from the ghosts of people who you looked at through closed, tinted windows when you drove through their homes?
you. you with your filtered water flowing straight into your homes, your hot tub-baths with a range of fifteen different bath and shower gels transporting you to new heights of raspberry ecstacy, your strawberry cheesecake adventures into a sky you have the gall to claim to own on nights when you deign to sit out on rocks and gaze at the sight that belongs to everyone, even the homeless.
your delivery pizzas and your disposable razors, your nike running shoes and your black leather suitcases, your feet poised half-in-half-out sideways, tensed for action, your use-it-once-and-throw-it-away-convenience life.
you with your rebellious i-dont-give-a-fuck attitude, your individualistic, self-centred, sickening spiral into a world you create to inhabit solely on your own, not simply content with veiling your eyes but insistent on going through life blindfolded. your bandanas and your guitar riffs, your 200W amp and your brand new shiny guitar you play all along the watchtower on all day and all night.
your illiterate reading of words, your deaf ears to crying children, your utter, absolute inability to see past your fingers and toes.
your creativity borne of hiding behind rocks and reading things before anyone else has heard of them and quoting at length from Nietzche, Marx, Lenin, Bacon, Descarte, Rousseau until the words run circles in your head and you have perfect recall of everything except what they meant. you and your eyes skipping to the author before the title, the source before the material, the geographical location before the point.

but more than that, more than any of that this is a rejection of the idea that to simply be here is enough. this is a rejection of us.

this is where the burning kicks in. this is where you nail yourself to a board when you realize you are who you always suspected, you've become what you'd always closed your eyes to. this is what a burnt-to-a-crisp soul smells like. would you like to taste it?