"Mores Are For Whores"

We've been given our plot to till,

But we've thrown a ghost in the air

So that locusts may converge,

As we run and hide in the arms of convention.

And now, the dichotomy of the self.

The sound of that iron string is fading,

Because emulation is the shortest distance to nowhere.

And nowhere seems to be a favored destination.

I can't hear a thing over the sound of this defeat.

Somebody call a doctor, my flesh is falling off the bone.

Don't listen when the sirens are sounded.

Hold fast to the ropes that wrap your guts,

Or be hanged by them.

Words by Randy Conner. Photo response by Sadie Myers. (Edited by Lear Bunda.)