Fist of the Intelligentsia

I was dragged along the plane of the horizon,  
scraped from stomach to back as the atmospheres flogged me with my blood.  
Maybe my arms are red with their own painted eyes.  

The atmospheres hold a common knowledge,  
yet the air is thin.  
 
My fingers are nauseous—  
too froth of slugging to relay the nerve impulse to the head  
and cramped from art within the allegory of the cave of the absurd.  
 
But common sense limped over the stalagmite,  
tolerating only the thorough and kind.  
 
And I and few siblings saw phenomena  
as the media splattered each lung along the dusty thoracic cavity,  
and my chum's pupils folded into their socket graves.  
My throat began to wriggle against the starving rope of the political party fluffed among the aether.  
 
But this intelligence,  
so universal, it's said, couldn't it have left me to the cave?  
Not all these mushroom shrubs latently born in UV can see the sun and it be the same sun of truth,  
if my sun in my cave scalds their eyes more than scholarly editorial.