Well i
drove by
you know i
i looked inside
just to see
what it was
i could see
nighttime bar
converted coffee shop
all the regulars hang out
in their regular hang out spots
Saddled up
Around the nighttime bartender
Converted barista
Heads in their hands
and the warm glow
processing the processes
of communication
Hazy waves of traffic outside
Blistering morning cold.
Well you know i
Drove right by with
Warm and fuzzy
Norman Rockwell
feelings welling up inside
When we gonna listen,
And realize we got nothing to say,
When we gonna break up,
‘Cause we got nothing new to
Say.
We’re all just on some mission,
some cheap and self glorifying
mission,
When’re we gonna listen,
(Electronic music interlude…
Still going….
Breaking it down now,
still…………breaking down…………… )
OK. Here we go…
i’ve got another question for ya. Mr. Campbell. Mr. Camp-bell? Where are we to go once They shut it all down?They shut down all the Men’s cl-ubs!
You know, I’d really like to really like to really like to know. You know we live in a time when Pinterest is the new National Archive.
it’s sad you know it’s sad you know it’s sad you know it’s true.
Soon we’re gonna wake up. Soon we’re gonna find, They drew a line between, the information you can afford, and the stuff they save for the East-coast E-lite.
Now it’s time to live time to live it’s time to live
up to the archetypes.
We are the Starving Artist’s, starving though our bellies are full. It’s not the guns They wanna take, no, it’s your mind.
So
When we gonna wake up,
When we gonna listen,
realize we got nothing left to say,
When we gonna break up,
Cause we got nothing new to
say.
We’re all just on some mission,
some cheap and self glorifying
mission,
When’re we gonna listen.
(To the Bloggers)
We are the Artist Archetypes: Liberators of Minds come to free you from the market economy and Peddler’s of pedagogy. Destroyers of the dichotomy, that’s blasphemy, we live forever in our memory, in every cell in our body, that’ll be the death of me.
Because it’s up to us, the artists, the seers, to drive humanity forward with our questions. Our science imitates art, just look at how most science fiction has become science reality in the last decade. Scientists aren’t the most creative bunch, and so it’s up to us to ask the questions that will drive us in the directionless direction, the unnamed, uncategorized, nonbinary. Otherwise we’ll have to settle for this simulated reality.
When we gonna listen,
And realize we got nothing to say,
When we gonna break up,
‘Cause we got nothing new to
Say.
We’re all just on some mission,
some cheap and self glorifying
mission,
When’re we gonna listen,
(Electronic music interlude…
Still going….
Breaking it down now,
still…………breaking down…………… )
OK. Here we go…
i’ve got another question for ya. Mr. Campbell. Mr. Camp-bell? Where are we to go once They shut it all down?They shut down all the Men’s cl-ubs!
You know, I’d really like to really like to really like to know. You know we live in a time when Pinterest is the new National Archive.
it’s sad you know it’s sad you know it’s sad you know it’s true.
Soon we’re gonna wake up. Soon we’re gonna find, They drew a line between, the information you can afford, and the stuff they save for the East-coast E-lite.
Now it’s time to live time to live it’s time to live
up to the archetypes.
We are the Starving Artist’s, starving though our bellies are full. It’s not the guns They wanna take, no, it’s your mind.
So
When we gonna wake up,
When we gonna listen,
realize we got nothing left to say,
When we gonna break up,
Cause we got nothing new to
say.
We’re all just on some mission,
some cheap and self glorifying
mission,
When’re we gonna listen.
(To the Bloggers)
We are the Artist Archetypes: Liberators of Minds come to free you from the market economy and Peddler’s of pedagogy. Destroyers of the dichotomy, that’s blasphemy, we live forever in our memory, in every cell in our body, that’ll be the death of me.
Because it’s up to us, the artists, the seers, to drive humanity forward with our questions. Our science imitates art, just look at how most science fiction has become science reality in the last decade. Scientists aren’t the most creative bunch, and so it’s up to us to ask the questions that will drive us in the directionless direction, the unnamed, uncategorized, nonbinary. Otherwise we’ll have to settle for this simulated reality.
The raid happened swiftly. Under the cover of night where the moans and groans would be a little softer and the insolence suppressed by the tremor of wakefulness. RV’s lined the street sandwiched between an industrial park and rail yard. The police ushered all the campers out of their RV’s, took their names, or whatever form of identification they could get, and politely told the squatters they’d need to find somewhere else to go. A young loner gets escorted while he wails about his plight. The cops turn up some opioids from his den. If they couldn’t move their vehicles the city would have them impounded. By then the grumblings and the protestations of the campers were drowned out by the big rigs hauling in the bollards, tow trucks arriving, and the crew setting up floodlights.
By early morning city sponsored trash bags filled with things, which were already once discarded, then picked up with a hope for some future purpose, fill the empty space behind the concrete bollards. A tent had popped up sometime in the hours between and a social worker would be onsite by mid afternoon. Amidst the emptiness in the air is the sense that perhaps all of this amounts to only the amassing of things. Regardless of social status, the only thing we can all be said to be doing is collecting for some greater future.
He was already dead before he was born, came out of the womb like void and now he’s the nightmare that lives down your street. Dwelling in desolation and isolation, he just wants to live in your house, live in your skin, take it all in. He’s never really seen but lurks from within. it’s kind of an addiction, if you know what i mean. Sitting on the sidelines, life never really comes for him. Everyday he makes exactly the same. He lives in emptiness outside the sleepy hallows, on the periphery, imperceptible. When the night comes, he swallows his breath and gives in again and again, rolling his eyes in the back of his head, devil’s cock in his hand, wanting only to consume, to be consumed.
When you are a consumer, you’re also the consumed.
lines of identity are a blur
so now we have to assert
our individuality, put a filter
on reality
and take your medicine.
The Materialists say that it’s the only way to
survive the harsh realities of nature, and
we’re inclined to believe them,
because it’s in our nature.
We keep adding layers of filters
like layers of clothes, just to get by.
They are bleeding us dry.
It was a lush autumn night when Domesticles woke to the realization that he, and everyone else, was at the end of someone else’s bottom line. Even the fat cats in the high rise offices were pawns in someone else’s game, everyone was being used in this life of domesticity there is no avoiding it.
That he was long in service. In fact he was in service to the word service, as much as he was in service to the elites. Life was service. Living the domestic lifestyle that he was, his actions and thoughts were a constant service to lining the pockets of the retailers.
Matrices, much like a pyramid scheme followed his dollar up the food chain, wherein he could see not only the interconnection of things but also his own place in it, right at the bottom.
A bead of sweat formed. Needless to say Domesticles did not sleep very well.
