Friday, April 06, 2007

Something new. Obviously.

Our Time

We are empty on these streets, tripping on commercials.
The cracks fill the void til the pavement beats a rhythm.
The women, the women, the women are tired and we’re tied to them.
Not knowing how or why the skipped beat is leaving.
But the running left us with nothing to believe in.

Around and around I played in the garden.
Capitalism - stolen virginity, right and left grieving.
Infidelity - distorted junkie, cashed up heathen.
Beyond purity like a HIV soaked syringe.
Trying to escape TV - the real - move away from the fringe.

Sold on special, loved for days and then thrown in the bin.
There ain't much more left to say unless we pack it in.
Great minds always come before and after the effect.
We stand in line, in style we wear barcodes on our necks.

Then from deep underground comes the most raucous laughter.
Birth: molotov romance in the distance - this is our art.
This is the beginning of the end - no more war no more poor.
Is this it comrade? Is this it my friend?

Masturbating over broken records, get that feeling?
Your own sense of self has forgotten.

It isn’t the qualifications that made us take this stance.
It isn’t the bank balance that made me write this poem.
It isn’t the cafes or the clubs that made me dance.
It isn’t the stories of the old world that lead us to roam.
It isn’t the love of the material that gave us a chance.

It is the dawn, the moonlight, the love and the fun.
We step to the rhythm, our time has come.


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