Sons of Icarus

The force is inconsequential. If you beat anyone long enough, their wings will fall away; leaving behind only an icy mirage of what they once were only to serve as a flagellate demarcation of the extent of their descent. For self awareness is the final deadly sin bequeathed to us in a world where one's soul is molded by the capricious hands of a vindictive potter. Once thrust into the fires of Acceptance, form, once a fleeting ideal, is now set in stone. The only escape lies in the inevitable erosion by time.

But waiting for oblivion is tedious, especially to a dichotomous soul constantly tearing at itself in a futile attempt at shattering its already cracked mirror. More cracks form, just widening the divide between what was and what is. But alas, the Fallen controls the body and its will. Being unable to quell the torment from within, seeks out a tangible symbol in the world without. Another pair of wings. Wings that taunt in their self-righteousness with every beat. And so the molded stone becomes the potter, Pinocchio becomes Geppetto and it begins again.

Sons of Icarus Narrated

Ode à Garbäzh

Instead of endless rants about our current state of decadence and offenses against taste and decency emanating from a lack of theology and geometry, I have decided to repent, ephemerally of course, and take action against the very plague that...well...plagues us. However, due to a grad student's nutritional requirements and the resulting American national fiscal deficit, my plans for world domination by disguising my Noodle-Noggin Doll as Janet Jackson's right nipple have been somewhat quashed. My impenetrable sense of responsibility and moral conviction, however, do not provide me the luxury of backing down. What little I can do lies in the power of verse.

Humanity has many unsung heroes. Drones who create the colony and yet are sacrificed without question when the situation whispers for it. As their phantoms rise from the grave, all they hear is the thankless silence of the civilization they built, grinding on. Banal romanticists may worship the unnamed soldier, the engraving on the wall. I'm sure it's tough; virtually limitless job security, benefits which extend to the entire family, bedding women at every port while knowing that if you make it home, you'll be someone's hero. Cursed...really.

No, I speak of societiy's true unsung hero : the garbage man.

Work-in-progress.