Jul 2012
It reeks of commercial cleaning supplies in here.
There’s the sound of Christian rock playing from a set of small speakers behind the nurse's counter.
This is not how I had imagined it.
In my mind I imagine you receiving your death sentence with the smells of curry
And the sharp loud ping of steel pan music playing from a line up in a carnival parade.
My Apa used to tell me that fate es desconocido.
Unknown to the world,
that it was all up to god,
But right now a man in a set of blue scrubs is deciding yours from the direction a drop of your blood travels on a piece of litmus paper.
Like a shaman casting stones he’ll predict your future, right down to where you’ll live and what meds you’ll take.
I’m just so tired of it all.
I’m tired of being selfish and thanking god it isn’t me,
And people telling you that “it gets better” and “life goes on”,
But statistically it does not get better
And life will only go on for 10 to 20 more years.
I was once told not to choke on my art,
But it’s really hard not to when my art is like bile pouring from my stomach.
Boys are walking out of these rooms as if this clinic is their grave.
There hiding their faces and I just wish this ******* Christian music would turn to paparazzi so it would make a little more sense.
I have a sweet spot for surrealism.
People walking their cats like dogs,
And dogs walking their humans like cats,
But this moment right now is more surreal than I ever wished for.
Let’s go sit on a hill side and tell horrible jokes so I can laugh through my tears.
Let’s walk in the park hand in hand and scare the straight people,
They’ll cover their children’s eyes and we don’t even have to think their hiding themselves from the ****,
We can just assume they don’t want to be exposed to your poison blood.
Or maybe we should travel the world.
You can spread your art and I’ll spread mine.
We can sneak across borders when they won’t let us in,
And when they find us we can just pretend to be monks or missionaries spreading the word of god,
But what’s that to us anymore when we’ve realized that dinosaurs were real and faries are fake,
Or that a tiny piece of protein encased DNA is about to unhinge your existence.
Right now, in this clinic life will move on and we can pretend like the future is sunny and life is still desconocido.
There’s the sound of Christian rock playing from a set of small speakers behind the nurse's counter.
This is not how I had imagined it.
In my mind I imagine you receiving your death sentence with the smells of curry
And the sharp loud ping of steel pan music playing from a line up in a carnival parade.
My Apa used to tell me that fate es desconocido.
Unknown to the world,
that it was all up to god,
But right now a man in a set of blue scrubs is deciding yours from the direction a drop of your blood travels on a piece of litmus paper.
Like a shaman casting stones he’ll predict your future, right down to where you’ll live and what meds you’ll take.
I’m just so tired of it all.
I’m tired of being selfish and thanking god it isn’t me,
And people telling you that “it gets better” and “life goes on”,
But statistically it does not get better
And life will only go on for 10 to 20 more years.
I was once told not to choke on my art,
But it’s really hard not to when my art is like bile pouring from my stomach.
Boys are walking out of these rooms as if this clinic is their grave.
There hiding their faces and I just wish this ******* Christian music would turn to paparazzi so it would make a little more sense.
I have a sweet spot for surrealism.
People walking their cats like dogs,
And dogs walking their humans like cats,
But this moment right now is more surreal than I ever wished for.
Let’s go sit on a hill side and tell horrible jokes so I can laugh through my tears.
Let’s walk in the park hand in hand and scare the straight people,
They’ll cover their children’s eyes and we don’t even have to think their hiding themselves from the ****,
We can just assume they don’t want to be exposed to your poison blood.
Or maybe we should travel the world.
You can spread your art and I’ll spread mine.
We can sneak across borders when they won’t let us in,
And when they find us we can just pretend to be monks or missionaries spreading the word of god,
But what’s that to us anymore when we’ve realized that dinosaurs were real and faries are fake,
Or that a tiny piece of protein encased DNA is about to unhinge your existence.
Right now, in this clinic life will move on and we can pretend like the future is sunny and life is still desconocido.
