Revenge of the Dadaist

Sont-ils prisonniers? Devrais-je les libérer?
This seclusion frightens me. What happened to youthful armies, manicured gardens, proud role models? Now I sit, dependent zombie, longing for the physical. One can’t destroy energy, one can only transfer it. What if I never acknowledge reality – could I avoid it? Broken tree roots curling up as if to grow towards the sky, inverting gravity and plummeting angels to hell. Grabbing air pockets to free yourself, you trip on extra limbs and crumble in. The dirt feels cold and soft... seems so foreign yet so welcoming. You hear the Earth breathe and for a moment, laying there, get an internal perspective. Molecules mix and flesh confuses with elements. You aren’t sure about getting up. Perhaps the trees were right and merging with the Earth is the way to live for centuries. Coffins float upside down like cumulus. Knock and see who’s inside! You wonder how the doors don’t swing open. Are they locked in? Should I release them? You leave footsteps of fire so no one can follow your tracks. I should be trudging ahead but I just keep looking back. You never warned me that I would get so badly burnt. I always freeze upon contact now, so the flames don’t hurt. Does controlling pain make it void, if energy is transferred, not destroyed? I invite them all join, forcing confusion through ballpoint. Did you forget the intentional dreaming and patriotic cut-outs? I still feel the strangulation throttling me out.
This is still not the way you want to end. The leaves swing down to tuck you in. This is where you won’t wake up again! I hope you will – I’m just not convinced. You feel the mantle pulse. The fissures throb, the nucleus bellows. You see those around you who felt in all along. Black eyes and superior senses, curious noses seem apathetic. Should they really care? They know they knew what we refuse to understand. Prevention only goes so far, make way for the newborn! There’s only so much carbon in the world – take a number. You’ve had your time, get in line. You must be this good to ride. You leave footsteps of fire so no one can follow your tracks. I should be trudging ahead but I keep looking back. You never warned me that I would get so badly burnt. I always freeze upon contact
now, so the flames don’t hurt.
You must be this good to die.