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Hypnopaedia
when I’m gone
the smokestacks will still excrete their acid
and erode the ozone like candle wax over rock
but maybe someday the eminently practical, monochromatic smokestacks
(which are yet appropriate as always)
will taste their first hint of nuance
of variety
of real life
with a whiff of cracking concrete
and crawling vines
like candle wax over rock.
will they know that it’s beautiful?
will they believe that the cold glory of machine
in its broken-down, malfunctioning, stalling, dormant immortality
is naturally superior to the instantaneous superficiality of life?
there is no chance at symbiosis
but maybe they can be convinced to be lively
like rocks are convinced to be candle wax.
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