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
too 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 to go from here but down to the otherside of the earth
and it sure as fuck ain't china...
when all these discarded images
come to surface like ophelia
grasping at the wide white nothing air
maybe i'll have come to terms
with my own mind.
when all the social implications
of society driving me already up-er-the-wall
(motherfucker), that will someday come tumbling
against an impenetrable impossible sky of agitation.
when all these numb words
fail to cause refrain
from my fingertips and lips,
when we have taken rebellion so seriously
that we cannot see ourselves
our own frail image of the teeter-totter of sanity
against the playground of oblivion.
when the weatherman offs himself on live tv
will we have then paid our dues
to become better
and to more freely
change with the climate.
questions too damning
too daunting, to delineate the complexity of answer
to their taunting propositions.
perhaps someday though,
we will see it
all before us
lucid as a bright green carpet of sod
upon the earth
unfurled for us
soon as we got off our bikes
to go traipsing through and upon
and on and on
till utopia tickles our nosehairs
like some cleverest feather
and all the feelings we severed
relive in the flesh as more than just prosthetics
then we will know