he who laughs last lasts.
children of no place, cryptic orphans of no homeland,
is this poetic exaggeration?
we got no audience, no publishing deals, no one to appeal to
we hardly got our guts and they are being siphoned through a funnel quick
to be used as laundry detergent for the future.
those that want revolution know not what it will mean look like entail, happen, if
me least of all
we are too obvious in our advances
to guarded in our hatred
desperately trying to pound fists against the stone
attempting to wrench blood from the rock.
victims of an imaginary marketplace
willing to humor the idea
anyone gives a shit
but we still demand real heaven
storming the arid gates of possibility
the scorched earth spurns us
its so called citizens do the same
unwilling to look at their own entrails
can have its creative tangents.
lost among the biggest fray
up to this point in history
to personally aggravated to give a shit about the political, the politikill the anti-political
or whatever the kids call it these days
too emotional wrenched upon the social war
to know what to do with our emotions
us all half-assed zombies of this dead space
nowhere from here but down to the otherside of the earth
and it sure as fuck ain't china...