A church steeple collapses down into an oversized parking lot
Debris and pedigree colliding into exactly what we wrought
Giant clown shoes crush buildings in the distance
While ties are used as nooses hoisting artists up for pennies
Jangling innocence
They didn't lose the plot they wrote it
They asked for more and then asked you to tote it
The people mourn on the way to work, the great commuter's moaning
This would be easier if we knew the motive
So close it
Lock the doors
Shut all the windows
Break down communication
Throw away your new clothes
It's not the truth that the world is falling apart
It's just the gray area between hard ground and cold stars
I'm not rock bottom, I'm not famous, I'm not at large
I'm just struggling to find meaning in the march
Good ole Godzilla makes his way up Glenwood avenue
None of the clubs stop dancing but some people die while they do
Cracked windows stack up upon bimbos like angels traipsing through the aftermath of revelations
These are just symbols
Y'all call them whores I call them outdoors
Like fresh air, the outcasted are the only ones you can trust with the course
Plague doctors and handsy proctors put hands on hips, their own
And lean back proclaiming honey we're home
Surveying the tremored shaking of an earth whose sobs are quaking
All these images come to me like the smell of fresh bacon
As easy as breakfast which we are never slow enough for making
Only crunching on the enamel of expectations
Highly limited now
Like the comforts of my couch
It's not that I don't go out
It's the nagging knowing that I don't have to now
Maybe my hedonism is the product of a lessened sentence but god I hope before it falls we finish
Alarm signs blare out there
Star spangled bombs and banners drop from the air
Never been an attack on our soil so we will never will care
But in here we're fucking and as Bukowski was aware
Fucking is almost as dangerous as thinking
And good American citizens do very little fucking
Yet still we're drinking
Yet still the smoke I'm sneezing
Coughing to get off the pain and fire becomes pleasing
I am not coping with the horror or the trauma
I am coping with the boredom of knowing there is nothing left to honor
God damn poet writing sorrow in their sauna
Throwing darts at words curbing objective subjective rejective adjectives over verbs
Painting feelings as truth
Upright as uncouth, overnight as long youth, horrible sights as your mom's view
Dirty jokes under math proofs
Overeducated, underintelligent barely capable of stringing together a message yet
Every apartment feels like an oven with no timer
Burnt, well done, or raw pretty soon they'll be on fire
But not here
Somewhere over there
As distant as California
As distant as darker hair
As distant as a culture of which I've never been aware
Speaking strangely euphemistic
drawing laws upon their women wearing hoods or wearing chakrams
Growing rice or blowing hot rum
Raising sails or raising children
Raising barns or raising hoodlums
Are we on one, are we product, or are we human
Father Father made us miss one
Or more like amiss of one billion as I sit in here in my privacy there's a thousand screaming civilians
There's a friend down in the dumps
There's a chick with red pumps
There's a local election turning blood red as gas goes up
There's a hot sunset casting a long shadow on the city
Something's lacking down here in the land of plenty
But I don't think about these things usually
I don't watch the news
I pray on my way to the gym that my car makes it through
I smoke a little weed
I forget to water my plants
Every blue moon I sing and I dance
Still the oceans rise
It's futile and concise
I am so sick of being bored in my demise
Ain’t that the most disgusting thing you ever heard
But today I don’t have answers
Just words