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| Android III ~ Peter Gric |
And you turn away from the screen; you are not dead, you are not yet rot for bacterial feed but your mouth is full of blood.
Who sets themselves up as a mouthpiece for the system, the corruption? How do they sleep? What dreams of glory, of bathing in money?
And you turn away from the spectacle that beckons you to partake in the public execution of your pride, your integrity; the whittling of your mind.
Who takes their wages without product, whose goal is a Porsche and a chainsaw, a suburban sound-stage for the shallow ego; crutches for withered genitalia and starved brain; a stain on the tabloid sheets of all our tomorrows?
On what altar do you sacrifice your hope?
From what stage do you sing your lament?
Who sets themselves up as a mouthpiece for the system, the corruption? How do they sleep? What dreams of glory, of bathing in money?
And you turn away from the spectacle that beckons you to partake in the public execution of your pride, your integrity; the whittling of your mind.
Who takes their wages without product, whose goal is a Porsche and a chainsaw, a suburban sound-stage for the shallow ego; crutches for withered genitalia and starved brain; a stain on the tabloid sheets of all our tomorrows?
On what altar do you sacrifice your hope?
From what stage do you sing your lament?
2 comments:
You're as good as a million miles away from me.
And, yet you somehow know just what my mind is rambling in private.
You keep soliciting amens from the mouth of a heathen.
What a world.
Ive got a song for you in the near future ill post it.
Cheers for better times.
Lobe were here.
Always good to hear your lone voice echo in the halls of the Far Queue Lobe:)
I look forward to visiting the Electric Tree
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