burn

she's cotton like language hung well over a creature of comfort she's just a follower
of the prime cut teevee dinner jesuits and a duality of sinners materially obsessed
and willing to accept what she cannot see like the icecream koolaid polarbear selling me
selling you, these cheap commodities, a console to console your lack of being free
so these budgie smugglers will make me so content in your farcical parliament
with backwards breathing vents and a thorough application of indie pop ointment
that will build tracks in the arms of puppet soldiers spreading condiment over continents
for oil spectacle and a common sense of what big brother said to you on master chef
don't you get it? it's all in your head. all the isms that got read in the russian gulags
the prisoner complex soap opera con gags, an aneurism for the empires new rags
but no-one bothers the lovers and mothers of a revolution that was shot in the head

so it's all a dick and jane reagan wet dream. a drink-up jacked-up consuming fiend
we like our rotting meat lean our whitewash radio temple broadcasting the obscene
a resistance of empty teens, their slogans plastered on quiet minds still not weened
off of the golden teet career scene, corporate coprophile, one love of being reamed
while the corpses of 68 dead philosophers resonate in the tombs of the once sacred
we sit and argue about misplaced sex and hatred. a grasping ID of ego life wasted
like the time we tasted the barricades, sweat drenched dances that had a love of a rage
against the machines that held the cage or cribs of drunken gods on broken stages
that replaced dreams with moving images and the spirit with deadbeat homages
to the ins and outs of hostages held left or right of a nightmare of our own creation

and lately
all i want to do
is burn it down.