Where to start where to start
Pen on paper where's the heart
distraught straights out of sorts
visions sight in the dark
Foundering in the sludge
sunk in the foul frame of mind
leech thoughts linger latched onto life
why, what now, how
Cry and rage inside our cages corpses caught
bloated dogged devices ambling shambling on
knowing not moving seeding discontent till death
Life runs away like a runaway train
circling round round the drain
to gurgle and slurp a last time
then gone
Bloated content grins removed from reality
Happily dying and rotting within
Building and supporting their prison safety walls
Walled in safely to die
They are happy, enough. I am not.
Enough.
The lullabye of deceit and lies not fully
descended and therfore seen through as
they bray like donkeys and line up for their pills.
Self-medicate by work or TV. By play or
disconnect.
Alone. Lonely alone together in the lie of
connectedness.
Anger and resentment build and build as
some would rather see it burn to destruction
than dissolve and fade away; a pointless obscurity.
The self importance and entitlement invested
and created which will one day be revealed
as fruitless fancy, an ignorant excess of
system's design unknown.
Rant and rage, slather spite and malice, to no
effect. As the birds blather on and on and on.
Squawking platitudes and shit to satiate the masses
in their foetid death beds long lived.
Many died for this. Many die for this.
If we are merely content to be here
their deaths are in vain.
Rise up, awake, move, breathe, or die
I cry again and again to my heart.
But it doesn't listen, yet, or move, yet.
If it doesn't, I will die.
I will die without life.
Yet I am trapped;
in a device I suspect I support.
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