merged with your militarized, fully enclosed throne of contemplation,
this cockpit of your monumental-sepulchral bipedal wandering tank?
mostly thoughts of regret, and vengeance absolute,
even if you've been framed for starting this war,
now, you relish being the great fire
spreading out of control.
yours is the only perma-death,
you know;
if you ever decide not to come back,
all your slain comrades sink into the raging grave with you.
sweet release
from all the cynical-cyclical ruminations of your war-brains
just a few button presses and joystick jerks away.
in theory
you could run nutrient drips
rig up ambient moisture collection apparatus,
load up on tanks of liquefied protein products,
even install a synthetic cell culture meats reactor,
when you feel the yen for the chewy-juicy stuff
-total enclosure,
total negation of the Exterior,
a final rebuttal of any arguments in favor of you unseating yourself from this
the throne of bloody-minded contemplation.
no wonder your name here is Royd
that's no localization error
you are the name of your own pain
that hideously swollen vein
but is it your heart or your ass
that troubles you so?
