Sunday, August 26, 2012

A not so old draft. ".execute"

It appears that we have reached the edge
That zenith where stimuli and comatose collide.
Forty years ago the man proclaimed
The age of the gross to be upon us,
And even though the man was destroying our heritage,
And insulting our intelligence
That era has become very real.

We labor for pleasure and abhor the guilt of pressure
My generation will go down as the architects
Of contemporary disgust.

Some have fought and died,
Others have allowed the strong to be butchered for a price
They themselves don't care about and will never understand.
I myself am beleaguered by the selfish face
Of a kind of man that is not mankind.

Distrust in information.
Fundamentalism of opinion.
Catastrophic boredom and a fanatical devotion
To that which does. not. matter!

Where is your glory now, people?
Where are your gods and politicians?
Where is your shame and salvation?
You rage for no reason, because you have no reason.

What have you ever fought for?
What have you ever bled for?
The face of the earth is scarred with the walking dead
The age of the gross is a living virus.

This is the future you have created.
This is the world you have set ablaze!
All your lies are coming true,
All freedom is lost, All Hope is Gone!

"Run." said the voices and he ran. He ran from his past, from his parents, from his friends. From his music, from his anxiety, his depression. From his books and his bed, his heart and his soul. He ran from the girls he had liked and the women he'd loved, from his apologies and obsessions. He ran from his failures and successes, from his hopes and his dreams, from his nightmares and realities. He ran through streets and alleys, by-ways and highways, footpaths and train tracks. He ran from the smell of her hair and the taste of her skin and the way she smiled at him. He ran from his beliefs and his prejudices, his regrets and his shame. He ran from the feeling on the back of his hand, the head on his shoulder, the arms round his waist. He ran from his joy and his fury. He ran from his ideas and his memories. He ran from who he was and who he wasn't. He ran and he ran and he ran and he ran and he ranandheranandheranandheran.

No comments: