neoclassical post-modern big-worded existence

feeling is overrated. like the feeling of hard-swallowed lungs or of soft-hearted whispers or of fingers against fingers against -- and you stop awkwardly in the syntax of conceptual period-ism. because punctuation is but a flaw in the human existence; lyrics a mistake in the pretense of a baby’s breath. if a song were to be the anthem of our heart beat could it also be the grammar of our placement? when three times three equals nine so does red times blue equals yellow. that each feeling, each notion, each instinct is an open, live, breathing experience signifies that each is, transversely, a person in it’s own reasoning. we will read all these things - "classics" from romanticism to classical to "neoclassicism" and post-modernism and --------------

all the labels will run over but in time will all be eradicated. movements, sexuality, gender, race - all mixed and confined to lines in a history book and all the passion dually felt is lost in the frugal ink of historians and artists and mathematicians and biologists and swimmers and idle on the tongues of dead Presidents rolling over in their graves. the ideals of feminism lost to time’s eraser; the girls who riot contained by headstones. chauvinism is stuck at the root of it’s ugly conceptions (because we know it starts from the balls and continues to the head). what will win? the persuasion of this century is slowly losing power with mini-skirts and animal-made covergirl (easy. breezy. beautiful: horse’s hoof) and the music that once created a movement slowly dies down and is patted to the ground by presupposing, lacking lyrics by our nation’s pink highlights - avril and aly & aj and britney. between your lover’s lips and statutory rape. strength here is underdone, lost in heels and high fashion and traveling and prefixes, titles, commands, demands and - above all - the quest for monetary fame.