Who am I to make these judgements, clad as I am in clumsy clown shoes and non-conformist hair-shirt?
I read the words of the educated; so confident in their dogma; their answers exclude all opposition with sharp in-jokes and sarcastic put-down.
Who can separate proper nouns from Oxford dicks?
I see around me small town arrogance that wanders through life oblivious; without indicators or headlamps.
Who funds these experiments in bio-diversity and drug dependency?
I watch as the full weight of the law comes down on single mothers with unpaid television licences and on mentally deficient black men in southern states while blind eyes are turned to crimes of global proportion perpetrated by white accountants and lawyers and children of criminal dynasties.
Where are the arms that reach down toward those reaching up from the maelstrom?
I see fascism masquerading as culture; consumerism as democracy; revisionism as historic fact; money as spiritual truth.
Where are the voices that speak up for those who have no voice?
I hear testosterone posturing sold as rebellion while the music of change is in-traded unheard; pop idolatry prostituting the spirit of protest through words distorted by marketing managers.
Whose heart is this that beats between the electronic rhythms of progress?
I feel the cold wind of war on the back of my neck as I flee Europe in fear of the future.
Why, in this small town of farmers and fuckwits, do I rail against myself in pointless navel-gazing self-justification?
The laces on my clown shoes are tied together for tragic effect and my hair-shirt itches like a thousand lost ideas in the well of futility.
I read the words of the educated; so confident in their dogma; their answers exclude all opposition with sharp in-jokes and sarcastic put-down.
Who can separate proper nouns from Oxford dicks?
I see around me small town arrogance that wanders through life oblivious; without indicators or headlamps.
Who funds these experiments in bio-diversity and drug dependency?
I watch as the full weight of the law comes down on single mothers with unpaid television licences and on mentally deficient black men in southern states while blind eyes are turned to crimes of global proportion perpetrated by white accountants and lawyers and children of criminal dynasties.
Where are the arms that reach down toward those reaching up from the maelstrom?
I see fascism masquerading as culture; consumerism as democracy; revisionism as historic fact; money as spiritual truth.
Where are the voices that speak up for those who have no voice?
I hear testosterone posturing sold as rebellion while the music of change is in-traded unheard; pop idolatry prostituting the spirit of protest through words distorted by marketing managers.
Whose heart is this that beats between the electronic rhythms of progress?
I feel the cold wind of war on the back of my neck as I flee Europe in fear of the future.
Why, in this small town of farmers and fuckwits, do I rail against myself in pointless navel-gazing self-justification?
The laces on my clown shoes are tied together for tragic effect and my hair-shirt itches like a thousand lost ideas in the well of futility.
6 comments:
to you my friend pisces Be safe walk in peace aliway and keep rocking
Rage Against The Machine!
I'm still puzzled over "non-conformist hair shirt". Is that a veiled way of telling us that you sport quite a bit of man fur that is currently out of vogue in favor of a more streamlined look?
Impressive artwork Pisces. My eye is always drawn to the numerous intrinsic details of your illustrations.
Hahaha I think you're confusing a hairsuit(hirsute?) with a hairshirt - the former being genetic, the latter self-inflicted.
So what does "hairshirt" mean, it's been keeping me awake and siphoning off any remaining sanity I have left.
My second guess is that you've allowed your hair follicles to run completely amok and have adopted a "Lady Godiva" persona cloaking yourself in natural hairy glory and wandering the countryside on horseback. Now theres a vivid mental image.
Hairshirt: a form of penance (literally a shirt made of hair - itchy), not as harsh as self flagellation.
I've learned something new today courtesy of you Pisces, gracias! I'm going to look for a conversational opportunity to segue hairshirt into it.
What about overly hairy "Missing Link" type of men? (Like my Dad) Does that mean Mother Nature struck them with a concoction of cruel genetics dooming them to be itchy and penitent all the days of their lives? Also, did you really flee Europe?
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