A big blue building.
With little blue people inside.
Blue workers rushing to please blue managers.
Falling into place naturally and poetically like soldier ants,
but feeling the pain of a harsh, corporate America.
When I live this place,
only then will I be human again.
only then will I be happy again.
Mind over matter
Your mind focused
on the latter
as you tried to climb to the top
with no perception for disaster
They call it high risk options;
sheer prayers for returns.
But all the bits of your brain
didn't care about who burned
Can't slap cuffs on an entity
So I guess it's lesson learned
in their equity
though one finds that the fines
can still burn
Every willing ear
mixed with the
right tone of trust
Acknowledgement in gold
soon traded away to dust
If the brain believes
its body should live forever,
then where's the fear
of a burn when confronted with an ember
so they never think a spark
can elevate higher
ignorance is fuel,
greed sets this structure fire
Man the troops!
The sky is falling!
The city's set ablaze
and the sirens are calling!
We're supposed to save the people,
but the people pay first
save the buildings with
these bails of water
even if the people thirst
New body, same mind.
It's done so many times
one comes to think its rehearsed
The ticket price is high,
the play leaves the people
tears upon the fallen earth
(what are we?)
pretending to love!
we are so full of scorn
how long will you wait?
every hour is the death of a million children
(as you know)
every hour you wait
this you know
you do not love
there is too much scorn
We're All Here To Create
But what are we really
Our hands grasped so tight
When the cup should just spill free
Report me to your role
Not as the alternative
A conversation about nothing
Without a thought to give
So natural and so real
As it all comes to cut
Dangerous as designed
Never left to ask what
I got a tingling sensation in the soles of my shoes
it has spiderwebbed up through my toes.
Flowing right through the depression and news
it's taken control of my nose.
A feeling so sweet and euphoric almost
but I cannot accept it's control,
so I fight it, I'll fight it until it lets go,
lets me back to my feeling of droll.
It feels so great, but I won't let it win
cause I know that I'm better than that
this feeling of "happy" will not win me over
I'll stop it before it's too far.
So I turn on the TV, flip back to the news
settle in to watch stories of murder and rape
I let it wash over and then go right through
till my soul will submit and sedate.
Then that feeling called "happy" will go, pass me by
It will fly with the birds to the south
I'll enjoy corporate life so cold, cut, and clear
let society take both my ear and my mouth.
But that happiness still in the sky to the south
looks out for new people to hold
it seeks out simplicity, individual thought
and someone to let it take hold.
Someone not caught in material things
someone to let it take hold.
Someone who loves to keep those little joys
someone to let it take hold.
Rows of stone houses, all back-to-back
lined by the side of streets cobble set
housewives with shopping, segs in their heels
clopping down ginnels with ringing footsteps.
Cast iron lampposts, corporation green
daily were reset by clockwork it seemed
casting more shadow than light which to see
brimstone edged steps, scrubbed 'elbow' clean.
Sweeps on their rounds, in Summer would rush
cleaning the flues with rods and brush
kids in the street, staring in wonder
at soot snowing flurries, from porcupine pots.
Nutty slack in the grate, drawn by the pan
coal smoking stacks, pouring out grime
creels of damp washing, stealing the flame
when years end smog, jaundiced the sky.
A trip to the 'flicks', Saturday morning
'thrupence' for best seats, 'top-a-the-stalls'
rounds of cheers as good-un's were chasing
the bad-un's were boo'd, soon to be caught.
In 'wellies an scruff,' we went to the 'flea-pit'
with 'ha-peth o' cheap spice', soothing the throat
food for thought, all week long
and played them all, the films we saw.
Cowboys and Indians, cap guns held high
annoying the neighbours, 'bye it were grand'
riding the range on imaginary horses
best we ride on, with slap of the hand.
'Play in yer own street', my recallection
and 'geer off mi steps, they've jus-bin-swilled'
yet still we 'mucked out' with die-cast toys
against the 'midden', and on the walls.
No more adventure, making own fun
young-un's today don't know how it's done
cartoon and serial, games of war
we'd launch to the moon, upon the see-saw.
... ... ...
for I am the corporate anarchist
tied down with shackles of ambiguities
feet grounded to the floor in unfamiliarities
watch the clock ticks in slender movements
knowing the hidden truth in it's constant
stuck in a routine sequence hand in hand
dollar signs in their manipulative brand
are we all fighting for survival or in greed
not the life I want, not the life I need