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’
