170208A
------------
Restless drab discontent,
where nothing moves ahead
fast enough,
and most of what does move ahead
is an uninteresting drizzle
of endless footsteps and voices
mirroring the carefully controlled pace
of changing fa****ons
where nothing really changes..
The statisticians are being executed,
for building a world from numbers,
counting us in our counting us out.
We count them as they crumple up,
gone white as sheets of blank paper.
Their ****rts are smeared with red,
as they die in puddles of their own ink.
Their locked briefcases are broken open,
revealing copies of the master plan.
We are dancing in a mad house
as if the world will end
and every dance is the last dance,
somewhere near the end of time.
We are dancing along the detonator
knowing it could explode,
the world's last remaining mysteries,
if one spasm of muscle skips one musical beat
in the precise scourging of our flesh.
We maintain vigilant hopes
that all the clocks will melt
in homage to Dali, a salvation,
freeing us from the endless toil,
of always salvaging a few moments,
for the sake of what we do not get.
Swarms of carrion eating insects
crawl under our clothing,
marching along avenues of bare skin
We have seen many headed beasts,
appearing in the midst
of crowds of blinded men and women.
We have seen complex machines built
for no other purpose
than to consume ***.
The dead were raised up,
until there was no more telling
of the dead from the living.
We declared that we want a party
that never stops,
and jazzers without jazz police.
We declared that we demand the freedom
to blow away our own minds,
in any way that we happen to want to,
instead of having our minds blown away
by others, in too many other ways
to classify, list, name and define.
---------------------------------------
|
