Children Of The Nodapoc Gather Round
Hi, hello to all my friends!
You're my friend and I'm your friend. Consider all your years lying dusty
before you. Your dreams that lived in your sleep nodlike are now dead.
Fear for the future. A tiny child's glistening hand, wet with a hundred, a
thousand, a million years of tears. She holds up a sheet of rosyred running
poppies. They're almost dancing silflike (?) children. A posy of pain, a
bouquet of boohoos and blobbing. A (?) of cares, a veritable watch of (?)
voices. They pit echos from vapid echo chamber of formless frightening
fears. Not frail or feeble but ferocious, full of filth. Seeing you,
already alas, know all too well that this war is not the whole picture for
we live under a shadow. Or rather many shadows. The bomb, the
mushroomgrinning cloud scowl like an insane inane inanity and insanity.
Vietnam, a cauldron in which the best of our youth die in the bloodtunnels
and (?) of Ho Chi Minh, the arms raised at the Sovjet Union. Americans and
people from space struggle for control of the cosmos, of life itself. TV and
wireless with its sleazy saturation electronic raise of sickness, sleaze and
sex with a capital bah. There's another thousand things both you, my friend
and I both know we're thinking of at this moment. Why me? Why you? And
what can I do about it?
Then, hope comes from my wallet in the form of a photo and a wish. That is
what I want to share with you! Thank you!
(Is it all a lie?)
Back
FrankenStein
Mail to Pri