This will always be an end to target
On horse, they will come for you
No one turns the night away from you; we are of the night inside ourselves
It dies at dawn, a part of you and me in the day at night
Wheeled gears with cogs on shafts, their levers leave us less, the will of the machine is obvious except to the machine itself
We are of the machine now for our livelyhood
It has no will, it machines. What else could a machine do?
No matter of the will inside us, machines a fount for the self to settle our need for time to savor the aristocracy of the American Dream
I lost my virginity to a bourgeoise
She was a dancer and the only daughter of the family who fed me
She danced on my heart until I found out what a real heart meant
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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