when will the struggle end? when armed citizens surround the main source of power. the inland suffers from dry heat stroke and land unfit for farming. i suffer from a broken heart. me, among millions, all came to share the same fantasy. we want the American dream back. if there’s no war to fight, then what are we in it for? these things that we experience, the day to day basis of understanding, they bore us to pieces. pockets full of lint entertain a more simple value than the world news. my fellow comrades and i are stuck in the complacency of boredom. we need inconsistency in our rhythm, we need a change in perspective. a loss, a gain, a shift, a color change. the foreground needs to become background, and the sky needs to quit looking so blue. our oceans should turn inside out. why don’t we fly through the air? why don’t birds become the new pedestrian? i mean, with all of this wonderful being that is nature, you’d think it would learn to be a little bit more unpredictable. the balance of life has been set for too long, it needs a disturbance. as if humans weren’t enough to disturb every little naturally occurring substance that life has to offer. we have to go and fuck things up more. why don’t we use our technology to devise of system of equations that will render religion obsolete. why don’t we stage a freak heist and make every bank lose every bit of currency known to man. why doesn’t foreign trade become i kill you before you kill me. i want the stars to explode simultaneously and to erupt in our nebula for all to see. i want the ozone layer to quit blocking radiation. i have a sick need to see what the sun can do to disfigure natural selection. fight, fight, fight. war, bloody, hymn, cramped in this coop, stuck half way between north and south. drowned in the poison solvent. ice hole fishing, polar bear attacks, sweat shop sweater un-protective in the cold. make or break the scar tissue with the time it takes to bake a batch of unknown soldiers. i can’t fry my face in the deep fryer. washing machine makes for a good weapon, but it’s much too large to hurdle. and my clothes smell like wasp nest anyway. a thought that’s hard to cleanse, even from the most uncluttered collection of neurons. where has the fun gone? straight to my head. fun is blood, and blood rises. cold blood sinks to the bottom of the ocean floor, i’ve lost another goddamned tooth. this is easy for everyone if they chose not to abuse it.
like the tidal wave that covers a small town, lives cold hand weaponry. the eyes in the skulls of the inhabitants wash over and get buried in the sand. children pick them up while digging for sand crabs. the eyes look alive, still throbbing from the pure determination that once filled their hearts, where the veins and various pumps connected. if you were to remove the cornea, you could find the last images of love imprinted permanently for the rest of the world to discover dishearteningly. the well that shares the water system in which the tidal wave ran its four legged symmetry is destined to be forgotten as well. but the wells, like the eyes, have left their mark without having to spell it out. there are bigger things in life than the ruins of a town overfed by infinitely countless gallons of sea salt. one civilization gone is another one beginning. this marks the start of year zero propaganda. time to start over with the ancestors buried in the past. they failed, and we’re arrogant enough to believe that we can make things right with the sheer will power that is gained from awful insight. humanistic, plagiaristic, and communistic, i’m left with a brain that cannot think beyond numbers. now a part of this grotesque machine, i set out for the work my forefathers engaged in, not knowing that i am just repeating a cycle of endless proportional value. stop me before i go bald.