Are you happy?
Are you really happy?
No.

Happiness is an illusion a distant conception dreamt up and designed by advertising and marketing agents to get you to buy trivial, meaningless, material junk.

We once tried to break away from this with counter culture, rock ‘n roll and punk.

Not long until the battle was over and we thought we’d won
But little did we know their rain had just begun.

Believing we were safe we let our guard down
Now they are back and build a Starbucks in every town.


We’re told how to look how to dress how to behave
Will watch smiling people on TV corrupt and deprave us
Now we snap back and they will not force us
Forget about what you know what you think you know especially about the value of material possessions
They are only strategically programed desires and obsessions

A guilty conscience isn't cleansed by buying a new watch
Stress is not drowned by a five dollar cup of coffee
Your life is not completed when you buy that leather couch
We can write a new page in history carve another notch
We can peel the label of consumer off and finally be free
We as a generation will curse suppression and no longer slouch

Break away from advertising
Say no to the franchises
Become what you want to be
Not what the posters say you want to be
See yourself through your eyes not the TV screen

Symphony of shells
Quartz pebble accompaniment
Gull solo to wind sound
Waves whisper-singing in mid-lantic
Come away, come away
Come to momma
Now

r ~ 7/17/14

Blow it all up
Bring it down
Cry revolution
And resolution

We are nothing but consumers
This is thanks to our fat cat groomers

All is not all available
All is not all tangible
Do you feel free?
We breath in the illusion of freedom and choice and safety

Are politics, the markets, the earth or the human race in a state of obsolescence?

Give them money and they'll call you 'Honey'

So competitive
So greedy
So destructive
So needy
Too Dominant
So corrupt
Too abundant
So let us disrupt

Unavailable everywhere
Nothing for all and all for nothing

The human race can design a precise regimented organization, with many cells capable of operating completely independent of central leadership to sustain and prolong the life of our race.

When I die, dear Mother
don't give my body away
to science.

I'd rather have it given away to poetry.

I want people to cut me open
and observe
how my bones were riddled with
melancholic verses of joyful pasts.

They have to see
the scarlet of my blood was the hue
I stole from the sunsets of
wishful thoughts.

Dear Mother,
give my body away
to the art of writing:
for they have to look past
everything they have ever learned.

They must know
of how much I loved and I lost,
and how that made the twine of my ribs
a story to tell.

"You are not special!"
People stood and shouted around me
As I sat and listened to other words of encouragement

"You are not special!"
People shouted trying to break free
As I sat and pondered my bodies torment

"The world around you is a lie!"
People clapped others cried
Not with sorrow but the joy of absolution

"The world around you is a lie!"
The man at the top of the room proclaimed
I listen and my duty as a being seemed to longer remain

There's nothing new out there
It's just TV reruns, reboots and reimagings, reborns and rewinds
There is no future just the past again
And again and again

The world is not as it seems
I've seen my life end a thousand times
In someone else’s prognostic dream

I have no name just a rank
As my years from home towered
My faith in humanity sank

When I commit suicide can it be said I died in battle?

I fear I am trivial
The last of mine kind
But I am not endangered because nobody cares

I see the world for how it is
Patterns, patterns within patterns repeated
A once unstoppable force now crippled and defeated

I do not morn or pity the dead
I envy them they're better off in my head
I'm the survivor but to what end?

When I commit suicide can it be said I died in battle?

My goldfish died, number three hundred and five
He was all I had in the world, he was my world
But I'll buy another bringing him back alive

I don't miss my family
I wasn't taught how
It isn't my fault I am cold and shallow

I've killed and saved
I've reassured those who'll never be cured
But when I'm dead I'll be called well behaved

But I'm the light of the world just more depraved