Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Live without dead time

We remember the colours that ran down your streets.
The children scream red, white and blue.
Others see red in dreams replaced by moving images.
In houses made of white sand, they will never be you.

We turned off the lights to love a stranger.
Every minute of our nine to five was worth it.
Masturbated over the masterstroke – screamed hallelujah.
We’re content – our desires are up for market.

In Chicago the crowd hears that ‘change has come’.
On her face lay tears hidden by the barrel of a gun.
We still choose our leaders, a savior to free us.
But the children still see red in Afghanistan.

And there are 700 billion reasons to burn down Wall Street.
Breaking the spell with a brick through a window.
Instead we head the tone dead funeral procession.
We’re collapsing as we speak words with no value.

Never mind as long as you get to take her from behind.
As long as we can sip some wine and talk about your poetry.
Maybe even that great hero of the people Pontius Pilate.
He knew that there is hierarchy in poetry, and poetry in hierarchy.

Not that any false prophecy could of ever saved us.
And this is whiskey smile, slurred arrogance to mention.
But any order of governance will always be broken.
And all the hippies can’t put it back together again.

Because there really is no government like no government.
Empowerment can’t be bought with a Che Guevara shirt.
So they’re burning ballot boxes for warmth on Grand Boulevard.
While we whisper ‘vivez sans temp mort’.



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