Sparkling wine and sparkling smile,
new fashion and new car,
a house and new gadgets to show,
a veneer that shines and glows,
underneath lies more,
unsettled and unknowing,
we show a reflection of not what is true,
a fabrication of our discomfort,
a fear of not belonging,
for the truth lies not in mankind,
but in the nature that surrounds us.

Sometimes when i'm dead
the flowers smell better
And many times time
just drips on by
within my empty head

The light bulb sun
is burned out within
my room (oh dear)
and the cockroach
tells me not to fear

Jesus breaks his knee
on a viral meme
Politicians parody
the struggling life
of you and me

Holding on tight
to the horror sled
of this holiday
season of no reason
neurotic sales
schizoid crowds
smiling fiends
and the flowers
smell better
sometimes when
i'm just dead.

:: 12-10-2018 ::

“But maybe your real job is shopping…”

Sleepwalk through stock footage.  Life as
documentary.  Soundtrack of horror movie score:
ambient electronica, bubblegum nostalgia and
**** love songs.  Everything becomes
visual metaphor: blackbirds, barcodes and
birthday candles; Big Pharma pick & mix;
lipstick ritual; pigeon superstition; fraying flags
of fading empires; migratory patterns of
shopping trolleys; special offers; fantastic prizes.
Worker bees are vanishing - they all want to
be queens - and our hives overflow
with honey, but are empty and dead.  We got
infected with aspiration, with individualism.  
Generically unique career consumers: remember
when you were more than your credit rating,
more than your demographic, more than your
market-driven self-diagnosis?

Advertise my soul,
capitalise from my sins.
Dig the earth for coal,
a market built for kings.
Suppress for your control,
fill your life with things.
Abolition of self-control,
a life attached to strings.

Gotta wash my socks,
just another random thought,
that and I’d like to return,
almost everything I’ve ever bought,

at a hotel in Melbourne,
Pegasus is what it’s called,
online searching for a good time,
wanting a real woman but still messaging these fake girls,

oh yeah and it’s my birthday,
not that that matters now,
because all that means is that my timeline is littered,
with well wishes from friends that I don’t even see anymore,

all this plus I feel like a *****,
like I sold my soul for some toys and attention,
and now the only time I feel anything at all,
is when I get an alert that I’ve gotten a mention,

and I’m 30+,
but still posting on my ****** Teenage Instagram,
still searching for some validation from strangers,
still not giving myself enough credit for who I am,

and where does that leave us now,
now that everything’s been laid on the table,
here in at this place in time,
between birth and death where we rest right in the middle,

no riddles,
yet everything feels like a mystery,
and I’ve got over 50 messages to reply to,
but I don’t want to reply to a single one of these,

I just want to log off and go climb a tree,
I just want to get lost in the green of it’s leaves,
I just want to feel something other than nothing,
I just want to not want a thing,

but I do want,
and right now one of my wants is to wash my socks,
because I’ve been living out of a backpack for too long,
and people think I’m living it up but really this reality really *****,

because I have no home and no friends,
a Self Isolationist that’s alone on his birthday,
writing to you like you still care at all,
when I doubt you ever even did in the first place,

anyways,

I’ve gotta go because I’ve gotta wash my socks,
just another random thought,
that and I’d like to return,
almost everything I’ve ever bought,

at a hotel in Melbourne,
Pegasus is what it’s called,
online searching for a good time,
wanting a real woman but still messaging these fake girls…

∆ LaLux ∆

Melbourne, Australia
October 2018

I don't live here
I'm only camping
On this planet
I didn't plan it
Yet I feel the need to explain it
As the plaintiff
To the sheriff
Imposing tariffs

Money is their concern
While my emotions burn
They are somewhat surviving
At the price of dying
That's the cost of lying
It makes us stop trying
Only commodity buying
While silently sighing
And violently frying
Through fruitless searches
No matter what we purchase
Or how much we spend
The gripping grief never ends
When there are no hands to lend

There are no problems with these items
When we willingly refuse to sight them
They are from where our problems erupt
For we neglectfully allow them to disrupt
The connections that our hearts yearn for
And our wallets burn for
When we spend our emotions on inanimate objects
To avoid the intangible subject
Of love

We're frightened of phantoms
A life heightened by tandem
Is not in the cards
We buy for each other
They don't begin to cover
The way we feel
They are a shield
For our true emotions
Objects can't evoke one
Yet that's our language for expression
Consumerism acts as our lethal injection

The pasture lays abandoned
The barn is bare
The fields grown overripe
Fences lay fallen
Roads returning to dirt
Not a single tool lifted
Nor a single human whimper
Nay a cry from any creature
Had been heard for many eons
And one may wonder
Of the perished and of paradise
For Earth lay singing
While all else is silent
And some long for music
And some long for quiet
And all long for something
And some long without knowing
And some long for things long gone
And some long just to go along with others longing
And some are just so winded from being long winded in longing
So longings lengthen,
Filling us to the brim with hollow wants
And this perfect paradox becomes
Pandemic