Wednesday, 17 July 2019

Communication 155

choreographed lies

over-saturation in abundance,
style over substance
eradicates
the need to experience emotion,
feelings are dulled by repetitive abuse
of the nervous system,
are we having a good time yet?
has your lack of inhibition
caused you to do something
you’ll later regret,
have you massacred your skin?
to make you feel like you’re living,
have you swallowed the pill
in the hope the hollow in your soul
will be filled,
don't take it personally, we’re all ill
it’s just many don’t realise,
they just continue to project
choreographed lies


Communication 154

come take your pill

I don’t understand me,
I can’t understand why
I feel like I want to die,
I can’t cry, ‘the drugs won’t let me’
I need a prefrontal lobotomy,
maybe then I can feel free,
I don’t understand people
they don’t understand me,
there’s too much upheaval,
they don’t have the sense to see
it’s best if they just leave me be,
sometimes a heart is too fragile
to house the hope that’s needed
to survive, it’s hard enough to stay alive
when conflict and confusion
are a reoccurring intrusion
keeping us from rest,
it’s hard to know what to do for the best
maybe now is the time
to swallow some
imitation happiness,
come take your pill


 

Communication 153

do you remember the scene?

do you remember the scene?
we were seventeen
having hijacked the local
record store
near derelict wasteland
towards the edge of Wicker park,
we’d all get high
sleep and stay
in the shade of
the Kennedy expressway,
it’s all too easy
to forget the scene,
strung-out dreamers
stitching together
a sound track, a song,
the ammunition
to forge a foothold
in a world
more confused than the one
that died out
before we were born,
the dream has left me torn

do you remember the scene?
hundreds of tattooed arms and necks,
a massacre of skin,
strung-out dreamers
slowly dripping heroin
into a body that could take
just about anything
I don’t even know where to begin,
it was me and you
frequenting the haunts
of Milwaukee avenue,
those dives and doorways
have long since gone,
having been replaced
with "everything that’s wrong",
we were all just trying to survive,
to keep the scene alive,
do you remember Pete?
he died, he’s gone,
he was strung out for far too long
and the others?
they were forced
to conform
 

looking back now
I wish I’d never been born,
the scene has gone,
and what about me and you?
we never saw it through
you left for pastures new,
I stayed, refusing to let go
of a time that died out years ago
do you remember the scene?
we were seventeen,
strung out dreamers
stitching together a song,
the ammunition, a bomb,
something to show the world
long after the scene had gone
that we were here, alive
way back in the summer of ‘95’




Tuesday, 21 May 2019

Communication 152

on the streets of Britain

I don’t understand what I’m seeing,
the good man dies screaming
on the streets of Britain
where we use to ride our bikes
playing hide & seek
until the tall streetlights
would suddenly flicker on
then we’d all be gone,
to rise again the next morning
summer holidays were never boring,
climbing trees and building forts
who would of ever thought
‘our’ children would be led astray,
becoming paedophiles prey,
such easy pickings
for the bastards to abuse,
my home town has its head in a noose,
my country is beaten and bruised,
the inbred are on the rise,
stabbing me and violating you,
don’t fucking tell me
you voted for this mess,
these ‘snake-oil’ politicians
who keep the cards close to their chest,
telling us what we want to hear,
using their engineered fear
to push through corrupt agendas,
the media obscuring the main offenders,
money talks and bullshit walks
in the house of commons
and the house of lords,
here they come scurrying in hordes
to sanction the poor and defenseless,
as they chomp on their slice of the pie
whilst they fiddle bogus expenses
don’t fucking tell me
you voted for this mess,
these ‘snake-oil’ politicians
who keep the cards close to their chest,
I can’t help but be impressed
as they address the oppressed
with another foregone conclusion,
creating the illusion
that we’re not a dictatorship
dressed up as a democracy 


 

Friday, 26 April 2019

Communication 151

the idea machine

the wires are coming,
the electrodes are humming,
connecting a population
of non-thinkers to the idea machine,
it’s the educationists dream,
thousands of born individuals
forced into a collective brain drain,
it’s a subservient schooling system
where facts are obscured
buried under the upheaval
of abusive discipline 
“listen to what you’re told,
don’t question anything”,
I feel like a dying fish,
hooked through the lip,
dragged through the system
then hung out to season,
I can’t locate my vocation
through the wave of mass persuasion,
I want to remain who I am,
I don’t wish to be programmed, 
the illusion of knowledge
that we’re taught in college
doesn’t hold weight outside
the school gate,
the wires are coming,
the electrodes are humming,
all and one are the same
plugged into the central mainframe
connecting a population
of non-thinkers to the idea machine,
it’s an educationists dream,
born individuals
forced into a collective brain drain


 

Wednesday, 24 April 2019

Communication 150

corpse

it’s the same day as yesterday,
it’s the same yesterday as tomorrow,
I’m locked in this prison
bound,
tied
and shackled to the same mistakes
I’ve made a thousand times before,
what am I here for?
behind my eyes there’s a war,
I need a fixation to take the stench
out of this decomposition,
life has become a stagnant stale corpse,
there is no harmony only discourse,
it doesn’t matter what you’re told
it makes no difference what you’re taught
some of us just drag a corpse
around with us all our lives
looking for a place to hide it
hoping nobody ever finds it



Thursday, 18 April 2019

Communication 149

pieces of me

pieces of me, dismembered memories
caged, a dancing bear I can’t set free,
the years have scattered me
upon the pages of another man’s story,
wide spread, lost in the Midwest, chapter by chapter
remains locked, I hate writers block
I remember the silos, star gazing in El Paso,
laying on my back on the dirt track
a highway leading to the great eternal ‘nowhere’,
destinations are simply shortfalls,
you can walk or get on your knees
and crawl,
we all end up somewhere
I’m just trying to deconstruct it all,
my landscape’s littered with thousands of restless wants
I can’t end up broken,
washed up upon these rocks,
I’m out of here as soon as I can break these locks,
pieces of me have splintered pieces of you,
neither of us are wounded,
these dismembered memories
will fix themselves with time,
I remember clearing the state line into Canada,
I’ve felt so much but seen so little
I’m yet to touch a love so brittle
as the night we shared a decade or so ago,
you kept pieces of me in Buffalo,
hold them tight, don’t let them go,
if I never return
take them to El Paso
bury them by the silos,
go lay on your back
on the dirt track
re-tread and map the journey
that splintered pieces of me
in your memory,
pieces of me and pieces of you,
caged, a dancing bear I can’t set free,
the years have scattered me
upon the pages of another man’s story