The flowering of youth
The pricking of their thorn
Facts spoken most uncouth
Lies and silences from these troubles are born
Friends lost where enemies are found
Fuck maturity
Bitterness and hatred abound
The revolution’s been halted
The angry young have gone
It’s just the id and ego; our morals have all bolted
We lie to ourselves and then to each other
We delude ourselves then duck and take cover.
And I’m feeling rather bad,
I’ve fallen for a friend and she’s driving me mad.
And I’m feeling rather sick,
There’s a guy I don’t know and I want to steal his chick.
I know she isn’t his to steal but at the end of the day I know what I want to feel.
I know what I’m feeling and I know I’m not feeling you.
Yeah, there’s a girl that you might miss, but she lives in the past.
It was never gonna last.
She no longer exists and I feel poor, white, and cis.
I know it’s not my fault.
The things that I thought,
The times when we fought.
And here I am still afraid that there’s something that I lost,
If my life has gone astray.
But now I am so painfully aware
of everything that I say
and every shirt that I wear.
I think does that make me a prick?
To want an easy fuck?
To want an easy kiss?
I’m aware I’m an addict
Through the pain that I’ve caused
Through the pain I will inflict.
Through methadone romances, stuffy night club dances, I feel my chances slip away,
But who can blame me?
Who can stand up and say,
That they don’t sin like me, at least not everyday?
At the end of it all, we all want to feel loved if you’re bi, pan, straight, or gay.
And yes, there is something that we all missed
There is no one around who lives in perfect bliss.
As humans we complain, until it drives us insane,
“Why’s everyone everyone happier than me?
Am I too wired, is it the problems they can’t see?
Or maybe they don’t worry like I do?
These feelings that I feel tell me you feel them too?”
We all just proof that we’re alive
That our sex drive
doesn’t mean we’re depraved,
Just that we’re deprived
We don’t need anyone to tell us when we’re saved.
We’ve seen without knowing the best minds of our generation destroyed ,not by madness, no by our own urges and drives and by the foolish consequences of those who came before us,
the Ritalin powered academic sufferer, hiding his flagellations and internal self mutilations inside the confines of his cloistered chamber and mind,
slaving over text after text, page upon page, scouring notes,
like a lamb before the altar of God, spilling that precious lifeblood that is coffee and sweat. Drained of all ambition as his wearied body pulls him toward the timeless swan song of sleep. His mind entombed, not in Bellevue or Bedlam, but within itself as the pharmaceutical companies rejoice and grind their mechanised gnashers against the flocks of the insecure and the hopeful. Doomed.
Hopeful that their ailing abnormality is beyond their mortal grasp, but can be fixed by talking to their doctor today and being told all shall be well before popping their precious pills promptly and with the powerful presumption of the pharmacological proclivity to productivity and efficacy. Creating a new generation of corporate addicts
Testaments to the product of the American Pipe dream with Ativan and Zoloft pumping through their bloodstream.
A generation destroyed by the power of boredom and the death of curiosity.
Of mass produced, mass marketed, mass entertainment ignoring the funeral mass of art and love as the communion wine is replaced with the corporate Kool Aid and the common liturgy swapped with xenophobic propaganda pumped out twenty four hours a day by the news cycle with more to lose from the truth and truest news than to gain,
controlling like the floodgates that started at Watergate and our generation is to bring the walls crashing down.
We stand before the dawn of a new age with information weeping from the eyes of bureaucrats and oligarchs.
The education of many shall fail them, but we have a chance to seek a remedy beyond what the eye can see. Either we decide to act in the defence of all or suffer the crumbling of the many at the hands of the few as millions live between life and death, plenty and poverty.
Scorned by police, misled by politicians, scammed by businesses, and harmed by each other as the rat race runs off course as blood fills the street as wine did in the streets of Paris and Rome with the poor lapping it up like dogs and dogs they soon turned biting their neglectful masters. People filled with anger and hatred, the grapes of wrath have come into a fine vintage and risks souring over and there shall be bloodshed, but the bonds that hold us in captivity shall unite us in comradery and after the chains fall there will be those to seek advantage under the guise of improvement, but a jeweled chain is but a chain for fools. There is no bread and no grand circus, only maggots scavenging on the fresh dead. The gladiators and lions of the past have been replaced. Evolving into the media and it’s multicoloured fabric of rape, misogyny, racism, pessimism, narcissism, and existentialism. A world that focuses on the individual at the cost of the generation, leaving behind an ancient veneration of human being and that of all creation. Those that reach for stars are hit by cars and the emerald light of lovers lost becomes a plight of all others and what cost? Roaming as desperate souls irreversibly lost.
The days go by like water from a leaky pipe
Slowly but consistently, in spurts with dry spells in between
Sleep, boredom, and self ignorance is the last remaining gripe.
An insomniac at the precipice of life,
between waking and dying
between living and laying,
Surrounded by one’s fellows, but utterly alone,
like the madness of a statue sealed in silent stone.
A cup may runneth over, but how does one atone.
Time, food, and money in plenty, but nothing less to waste,
No activity, no fun, no lesson, but all is done post hate.
An insomniac, who lays still, stiller than the dead
Listening to doubts and worries, yet all is in his head.
Actually, this is just 21st Century Beat Poetry, but titles for poems are really bloody difficult.
I Double Think and in a blink the workers and proles are on the Brink.
History is, but never was.
Common truths are turned to lies.
Lies in turn become truths.
The mindless rotations, the falsifications of currency value inflations, Through such metronomic instruments the Titans of Industry keep the beat, through actions indiscreet and, on more than one occasion, the actions of a cheat with the people suffering from their constant status of socioeconomic defeat.
The reeking of the putrid petrifications of personal pestilence remain properly pervasive prescribed pro bono publico. So examplified by the cult of ego behind celebrity veneration. Our thoughts thought of understanding, while our actions were of the sort of arrogant ignorance that so defines our, and each successive, generation.
After a night of loud music, sweaty people, and shoddy dancing (among other things), I want to clean my mind out. So I’m just going to write things and hope it’s art/artlike/resembling something that someone somewhere at sometime has called art/ amusing.
A pitiful mess in a volcanic dress with the desire to find the one and escape the mire. To find love and from clubbing retire. Yet there is the pretender, whom we all remember as the unlucky lad who thought he had had the girl of his dreams back at his pad. A silent flat he awakes to and unhappily finds the girl of his dreams has changed with the times. He went to go out, to erase his pout with cheap alcohol and associated gall to find a girl and not always feel sick. Tear stains down her eyes because her boyfriend’s a dick. She intends to go and she intends to go quick. When a friend comes along, whose life’s put together and there for her regardless of weather. A trip to the washroom became for like a posh room for when they came out they left no doubt that to see the girl in the red was worth dropping dead. The unlucky lad, the insufferable cad, had one too many a drink and had become slow to think. He stood rather stoic, but before he would know it, he saw the formerly hot mess in the volcanically hot dress. His drunken attempt to forget with contempt had been harshly uprooted as the thought intruded. That his thoughts which made him randy had turned far more dandy. The unfortunate pulling of his heart strings, the pounding background noise that made his ears ring conspired against him and added to anxiety, barely aided by his current insobriety. Though she was scared and afraid, her face was determined and brave. She still wanted to leave, but her friend would not believe any excuse or take verbal abuse. She was then pushed by miss Brutus to the habitually clueless unlucky lad who may have been sad. They danced rather poorly, but with foolish grins, and surely, but slowly, events proceeded uncontrollably. One ran from love, the other from sorrow. They had a tomorrow and the truth of the matter was in the clubbing clatter of mindless chatter in the depths of two hearts shattered, something did live and that thing did grow, though not without woe.The exact end is impossible to know. Others say lust, more still say lies, others shout it’s a must that one of them dies. In those moment of life, of petty strife, of dramatic romantics wielding a knife, there are times where two mistakes can lead to a right and in the debauched sense of that night, good things could happen and now then… Goodnight.
Then it occurred that I really did write that. Nonsensical drivel, not fit for an epitaph. The whole thing is not what I now speak of, just the sappy bit at the end, not the possibility of some meek love. That just makes me sick, so intolerably queasy. Parodying cliches is remarkably cheesy and incredibly easy. It’s a cheap trick and if you read this, you deserve better. The length of this, my mind did fetter. I humbly beg thee for thanks, I’ll say goodnight now before my mind…. blanks.
I’ve neglected to shave for the past few days and I’m afraid I’ve come down with poetry. Bear with me, will you? I’m sure we can get through it.
You live your life categorically less than perfect
You were told if you had to flaunt you had to work it
You live your life as a constant bother
You spent your childhood running home, back to your mother.
You enjoy living in your stained glass castle
You never stop reminding us that your life is such a hassle
I’ve never been one to be a pessimist
If I were I’d be out now, trying to get pissed
Why do you think you’re always so tired?
Why are you always worried about getting fired?
Is it because you live like a functioning agoraphobic?
You think your life is the definition of ironic.
In reality, it borders on illogic.
But who am I telling how to live your life?
Who am I to tell you your life is full of strife?
Maybe one day you’ll settle down and become a wife.
Or maybe you can change your life and become happy.
Are you content staying here and changing a nappy?
Is this life of yours getting too fast to handle?
How would you know your kid would become a fucking vandal?
Maybe you should slow and plan how to retire.
Do this fast, as the situation is becoming ever dire.
Perhaps you should leave town to live in the country
Maybe you should stop being a mental absentee.
Now you are old and your troubled son is back in prison
How many more problems have recently arisen?
Now you can’t see, and you can’t count your medication
And your life is slipping far past the point of aggravation.
Now you’re sick and in hospital again
And you hope you’ll die shortly or you’ll go insane
Though anything would be a vast improvement.
And it is becoming harder to make any sort of movement.
Now you are dead and life goes on without you.
You tried to be kind although you didn’t have to.
But you lived your life always trying to please others.
Although you never lived for your mothers or your fellow brothers.
Why didn’t you try to live the life you always wanted.
Life was moving fast and you were always getting taunted.
Was it you or the system or maybe something in between?
Maybe you should have viewed life a little more obscene.
So it’s time I tell the lesson of this little story.
Forget all the expectations and the memento mori
Now don’t you live your life ten miles from where you were born
Remember to think outside the box and to never mourn.
Don’t live life worrying about your future, but remember to remember your past
Maybe you could escape your caste, perhaps you could be happy at long last.
Why are you here? Now that I couldn’t tell you.
But seize the day and try to be content without contempt
I’ll leave you now and I bid you adieu..
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