the technotronic era
it’s far too late to retract such liberalism
‘ism’ after ism’, a straight-jacket, a gag
a homosexual, a ‘fag’, your right wing
views will only do you harm,
I’m tongue tied and despised,
he who tries to take on the state will fail
so you vote for betrayal,
it’s an egg and spoon race
it’s the media spin, first past the post wins,
those left behind will perish for their sins
condemned to rot upon the back benches
a caricature squeezed between column inches
they’re in for a pound, I’m left with a penny
democracy
the illusion to the many
that the few don’t control you,
they’re in it for the gold
a stealth tax on the old,
if you keep your mouth shut, you’ll be fine
you want to question the party line?
get to the back of the que,
the vote doesn’t include you
the baggage of failure
I promise one day we’ll find a place called home,
I don’t know where we’re heading
it’s impossible to ever know,
grab your bags lets go, there’s a poison in the air
we’ve got to leave town before the whole place
comes tumbling down, the fire in this boys eye
has killed his vision, he use to be so wise
determined to shoot for the stars,
he was wounded by his past,
you can only clean the slate
so many times before you’re left red-raw,
why are we here? what are we living for?
a tidal wave of the unclean
are thrown to the dogs of this war,
I never pictured myself a ‘null’
a ‘void’ trapped in the house that jack built,
I fear not the consequences of my action,
only the giants mass that comes crashing down
upon the broken back of my wreckage,
to live with the unexpected
is to proceed to persist through shock,
those that haven’t crawled from the
fracturing of the day can’t locate a connection
to try to communicate in my language,
I want to live without the baggage of failure
youth
hitchhiking, encompassing
no great need to belong
I can’t stand the frustration,
inhibited by mental restraint,
don’t wait up, I’ll be back late,
the years have been unkind,
I’ve tried to salvage sanity
in the shape of a prescribed reality,
maybe you were undeserving
a bad apple yet to turn those
around you rotten,
or you were simply a ricochet
caught in the crossfire
of someone else’s desire,
either way you now retire
to the fact, your youth
ain’t ever coming back
the golden age
welcome to the golden age
come grab a knife
go take a life,
stabbing is all the rage,
don’t be boring,
don’t be beige,
you’re alive in this golden age
where cultural enrichment
and a failure to integrate
has made it impossible
to relate
to those
that walk around me
and those that talk over me,
I’m disgusted with what I see,
since when did multiculturalism
repair such division?
I use to wear my heart clearly
on my sleeve, but I fear now
it will be taken from me
if I dare show
my true feelings,
there’s nothing less appealing
than someone else’s
utopian vision
forced down upon you
like a new religion,
truth be told we’ve all been sold
decades ago
but who was to know,
I’ve tried my best
but I just can’t relate to those
who choose not to assimilate
false god disorder
I want to be an anarchist
I want to change the world,
to fight for the freedom of others,
whilst my hedge fund quietly doubles,
I can afford to be a hero,
an ‘eco warrior’, an arse,
a hypocrite of the highest order
an instigator of hypocritical disorder,
you’re simply putty in the hands
of those for whom you slate,
you’ve been chipped and numbered,
barcoded by the state
and all these diverse opinions
you’ve spent an age quietly crafting
are nothing more than sound-bites
implanted in your head by the ‘sodomites’
that parade their perverse persuasions
right in front of your eyes
“injustice” I hear you cry
whilst you quietly up the rent
to prevent
those who pay your life long subsidy
from tasting a sense of security
carry on … continue
don’t mind me,
you’re a hypocrite of the highest order
a victim of a ‘false god disorder’
the interface
a vast junkyard of wasted humans,
forgotten geniuses eaten away
by their own genius,
derelict hosts once so nuanced
prescribed an ‘overdose’
I’m living a counterfeit life
all seems real to an untrained eye,
it’s the era of the ‘death of self’
familiar imagery, thousands
having mastered mimicry
I haven’t heard one true voice
since we’ve wired ourselves
into the interface
we’re forced to participate,
the mob can’t wait to retaliate
to opposing views that challenge
their delusion, I feel the confusion,
it all seems such a waste,
I’ve spent years trying to cut
my connection to the interface,
it’s malpractice, a database
used to debase, a tool
to develop our predecessor
a freedom oppressor
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
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
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’
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
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
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
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
choreographed sound bites
you’ve been psychologically disfigured
by the white noise, the constant hum
of the celebrity skin keeps you filtering,
editing and uploading,
meaningless has never meant so much,
snippets of a dull and boring life
are christened by a few ‘retweets’ and ‘likes’,
we’re living choreographed sound bites,
forever fixated with the overrated,
changing our face to fit
a life interlaced with cyberspace
divide and rule
life is a series of addictions,
endless afflictions, micro managed personalities
doctored to fit false social standings,
the
fabric
of
society
is
dangling
on
a
string,
all you law abiding citizens accused of being
‘right’ wing must function in silence and hush
your patriotic leaning - “crawl back under your rock”
the ‘left’ keep screaming,
as they sit preaching
making a toast to their host
a philanthropist who will do his upmost
to keep his enemies close,
shoving sly back-handers
in the pockets of the few
that rule over me and you,
false prophets file through the ranks,
a future built on think-tank analysis
dictating - social change? or social paralysis?
you think you’ve got a say?
I think you’re a fool,
it’s a simple stance
of divide and rule
habitually distracted
there’s a ghost in the machine and it needs to be extracted
we’re fixated on the screen, a nation distracted,
status updates and memes
moving images in monochrome,
a ‘celebrity obsession’ syndrome,
I can’t quite believe the carnage
800 channels of choreographed garbage,
our responses are monitored
and mirrored to harvest,
we’re moving at such a pace
faster than I anticipated
and as I’m dissected and sold for parts,
the collective consciousness is infiltrated,
this sudden death of self is an infection
within my philosophy,
a
new
form
of
control
through
A.I technology
continues to hijack our physiology,
its weaving its way deep within the skin,
why aren’t we questioning its purpose?
we’re being imprisoned by an evolving algorithm,
these new forms of media keep us conditioned,
forever confined to an open prison
with no windows or walls
where the few police the many,
the creation of the human machine
has taken decades to fine tune accurately
we’ve embraced such intrusion so naturally,
the new age will dawn and we’ll be discarded,
if you believe the hype then you’re mentally retarded,
you’re side-tracked and open to attack
habitually distracted by a constant need for
‘digital crack’, you’ll never give it up,
you’ve got no backbone, laid to waste through
a ‘celebrity obsession’ syndrome
the old school yard
Up past the old school yard
and through the streets I use to know,
a war once raged upon these pavements,
young blood drew battle lines in the mud,
a certain kind of infamy came
with losing ones virginity,
all these tales are best left untold,
it’s just not the same now we’re all old,
some left to see the world, though
many stayed and still walk these streets,
a million and one ghostly heart-beats
retreading their once youthful steps,
I moved on but I will never forget
that moment in time when we were all one,
chasing the dawn, sleeping under the sun,
Charlotte I can’t forget you, god knows I’ve tried,
it’s been over 30 years since you died
and you’re still beautiful, forever on my mind
Case Study - Patient ‘3788’ - Psychic Or Psychotic
she’s high risk, forcibly sedated,
confined in-line with statistical analysis,
she’s out of the ordinary, a perception terrorist
challenging the obvious with her 9 dimensional awareness,
she doesn’t conform or align with ‘the norm’
this is when the problems were born
there’s no longer a beauty in her eye
it’s died, she’s been dehumanised,
indefinitely institutionalised,
a slow subtraction of her persona has turned her into a stranger
she’s changed, patient ‘3788’, confined to a cell block,
prescribed acute electroshock,
I’m no longer her brother,
she’s no longer the mother I knew,
it’s all “too little, too late”
her children now belong to the state,
bouncing around like yo yo’s in foster care,
to end up in the gutter or “god knows where”
she spends her days counting cracks on the wall,
observed from a distance, offered no assistance
as she suffers in silence, I honour her resistance
but there’s just no point, there’s no way out,
she can cry at the top of her voice,
scream and shout her lungs out
but nobody comes, no one cares
so she just sits and stares
continuing to count the cracks on the wall,
what if she’s really psychic?
what if she can really see the dead?
science will insist it’s all in her head,
prescribing more restraint,
dumbing her down so she can’t retaliate,
patient ‘3788’, we’ll continue to sedate
she won’t be a problem anymore,
we'll keep her confined and lock the door
taxidermist
past the wood
where witches lie,
past the slaughter house
and pig sty,
jawbones and teeth
rot on the floor,
I dare not open
the cellar door,
the master he rests
with blooded hands,
he’s cut the throats
of the goose and lambs,
he baits the badgers
and cuts off their heads
dances with serpents
in his taxidermist shed,
the mans a bastard
his heart pumps lead,
he gets his kicks
from
redressing
the
dead
Borderline
I’d pick up the phone if I could,
conversation is a terrain best left unexplored,
I’ve locked all the windows and doors
to secure the room inside my head,
every thought and action hangs
precariously on a thread,
my tongue is tied so awkwardly,
I’d rather cut it out than speak,
I can’t even begin to describe
exactly what lies beneath,
there’s more to us than skin and bone,
it’s best I’m left alone,
you can try to contact me
but nobody’s ever home,
all these words inside my mind
make very little sense
the weight to articulate my feelings
has broken my defence.
I’m bouncing off the walls and ceiling,
these pills I swallow have masked all feeling,
I’m agoraphobic, none transparent,
and through it all it’s become apparent
that happiness has upped and left
and I can’t coax it back
it’s been beaten so profusely
by a “wonder pill” called Prozac
and a cocktail of other vile
questionable drugs,
it’s as if each one of my neuro-receptors
is smothered in pharmaceutical hugs,
no wonder I can’t get up,
no wonder I can’t feel love,
there’s no counter balance to my despair,
and worst of all, I don’t care
I just can’t seem to locate myself
I know I’m in here somewhere,
as I stagnate staring at the wall,
I can’t help but wonder
what’s the point in it all?
