Sometimes it’s better to be silent,
To say nothing,
To hold those bandages across ones face,
To allow a fool to preach,
To not involve oneself,
An imbecile will expose themself,
So let them trip over themselves,
Not all souls deserve your tones,
Keep that quiet wisdom to yourself,
You can’t argue with idiocy,
Just remain,
Hushed.
Life is a revolving door,
A contraption both devilish and glorious,
Spinning within a cyclone,
A tornado of crises and marvels,
Spied through lucent glass,
Dizzy,
So dizzy,
Other figures ride alongside,
Friends and enemies,
Lovers and nemeses,
They get on and off at random,
Stepping out of sight and mind,
Whirling,
Still whirling,
As the years go by,
The door spins slower,
The options dwindle,
Eventually it’ll cease,
With only a single destination,
Silence,
No more heartbearts.
We’ve always been casualties,
Losses,
Fatalities,
Laid amidst shrapnel and bloody rags,
Souls laid in the street,
We were casualties of birth,
Unable to receive oblivion,
Thrust into the world,
Added to the unholy tally,
Another tick on the doomsday clock,
Now we are casualties of society,
We’re trapped within this artifice,
Cogs of a machine we didn’t design,
Engine oil taken right from the artery,
Advocates of our own exploitation,
Despite the light and healing,
The band-aids placed upon amputated limbs,
Boons that life begrudgingly gives,
That’s all we shall ever be,
Casualties.
There is so much angst in the world,
Unbridled rage,
Anger without outlet,
Poisoning every well,
It certainly paints a sorry picture,
The worst shades of crimson,
If life do indeed be a game,
Then it’s a bloodsport,
Like toddlers,
We push each other over,
Down on to the oil-drenched sandpit,
Toy soldiers and Raggedy Ann’s,
We tear each other down,
And for what?
To receive a more opulent grave?
In the same grave dirt?
You mean to tell me,
That this wretched scrap of fabric,
Green as envy,
Is the meaning of life?
The means of ones survival?
I’m to break my back for this writ of coin?
This imitation of worth?
To bear restless nights and foreboding,
Over its accumulation,
Must we sell our souls to the banker?
What ever happened to,
Art and triumph,
And love and joy?
Were they rendered obsolete during my sleep?
Replaced by this sickly green memento?
Work hard for scraps,
Your little jade tokens,
And watch others,
Those fat cats,
Grow fatter.
Society is a house of cards,
Made up of jokers,
Teetering,
Collapsing under its own unease,
The decadence and cruelty,
They didn’t listen,
A house can’t be built on inequality,
And fools make poor craftsmen,
When winter descends,
Some will be torched,
To heat the hearths of the rest,
And as we all fall down,
You can be sure,
The top cards will elope upon the wind,
The rest will be mulch,
A pile on the floor.
Spare a thought for the terraces,
The rows and rows of townhouses,
Laid together like crops,
Young families and single parents and renters,
Elbow to elbow,
Like sardine cans of red brick,
And like a harvest,
They are the Mans bounty,
A store shelf of useful bodies,
The working class of corn and hops,
Average Joes and Janes,
Meat for the stock market butcher,
These people,
In their streets of grey,
They weren’t born to work,
But they need work to subsist,
Captive livestock so to speak,
And the terraces provide.
Mankind is sick,
Addled by a toxic fog,
A primal miasma,
Colourless and odourless,
But insidious all the same,
It permeates not only into our skin,
But our humours also,
Reducing us to beasts,
We scratch at one another over trifles,
Imagined slights and bruised egos,
Chimpanzee disputes and jealousy,
A red mist owning our minds,
And though harmony is our ideal,
Our intent,
We show such aptitude for rage,
Such illness.
When ravaged by all manner of malady,
And gored by the tusks of the world,
We stop off at the pharmacy,
Domain of chemical wizards,
A sweet shop of legion chemicals,
This sterile witches den,
It glows white and smells of detergent,
It’s aisles an amalgamation of lab and herbalist,
Shelves of names unpronounceable by the uninitiated,
Cures for any ill,
They have a variety of incantations to imbibe,
Pink liquid to make the bile stop rising,
Chews to calm the nipper,
Ivory opals to make the voices stop,
A little blue drop to revive a marriage,
Manifesting modern sorcery,
A candy shop of a different kind,
Replete with sweets of bizarre names,
The world will try to railroad you there,
So be sure to take your medicine.
Look here and see,
A fine exemplar of humanity,
My form built on spent casings and pollcards,
There is a hole in my heart,
I dare to say it can’t be filled,
I do my part in the consumption,
My right hand here holds fossils and blood diamonds,
Funds for the campaign,
My left still gripping the throat of nature,
Giving toasts to the gurgling,
It may be crass to say,
We were born to rule,
Or so we gaslight ourselves,
Sitting on thrones of pork and beef,
With cruor and tallow on our lips,
It’s dirty work being human,
But taxes have to be paid,
So here I march on,
Boots leaving bloody tracks in the snow,
As a fine exemplar of humanity.
WorldofHarley 