I woke up to go to work
To make my boss rich,
To make him make his boss rich,
To have the biggest boss making government rich,
To help the government train soldiers,
To have them fight with other soldiers,
To collect all the tears their families drop,
I thought, eating my breakfast.
Sipping my tea that I made,
From tears.

It is a gush
of cultish greed
that sees me seed
these gray streets
with cement
and litter.

Searching for
the stars that glitter
in commercials
and window shops,
the tyranny
of humanity
swells in my heart.

Callus to the collective
because of the things
I seek to collect.

Then with each purchase,
and each pleasure pill
I use to conceal
the depths of
what I truly feel
I lose
a piece of
the empathy
I once cherished
and loved.

Till, my leather worn face
turns bitter
and the last of my humanity
escapes me
because of poor scheduling.

In this town, the tower blocks stand above the clouds,
the street lights illuminate the granite pathways,
as you walk, you will kick a package of cigarettes
depicting a very sick woman -
they sell them in the corner shops.

In this town, I have seen the worst mind’s of my generation,
flourish in the un-fertile fields like
flowers that grow on a soil
of cigarette ends and syringes
chewing gum, coffee cups, oranges.
Condoms, crisp packets, needles,
Rare paintings that hang on the walls of the mind,
torn down by the authorities,
painted over with white.
Lost in a sea of machinery.
And bright light’s.

In this town, in the gutter of the pavements,
vile creatures will reach out there shaking hands.
Varicose veins, blackened nails, drooling mouths,
and beady wanting eyes begging you for pennies.
Dismissed by city boys suicidal from the stress.
Some look a mess, some feel a mess.
It’s all the same, the endless city strain.
In this town, when your eyes look up,
you see the birds flying in pain,
from these ******* factories filling
the air with smoke killing
the natural ecstasy of the sky,
and they fall from the sky and die.

And they wonder why kids
reach for the knives and the guns.
Wonder why they cut their arms.
Smoke and smoke and smoke to feel calm.
Wonder why they hang from structures.
Wonder why they paint obscenities on the walls of schools.
Wonder why they drawl
at the site of death
when it follows them everywhere
from podium’s in the wealthy churches.
To the cemetery gates,
To the news broadcasts.

Wonder why they disappear for weekends
Somewhere lost in a city of escapism
Wonder why they howl fowl verse
Strums on guitars,
hit at the drums.
Wonder why they linger in dark alleys. And dead ends.
With money, clutched by shaking fingers, seeking amends.

In this town, you wake to the marching boots;
The sound of the army that walk the city streets
In a uniform of suits, and guns in the shape of suitcases
All with similar faces, similar hats,
You will wake to the scream of the birds & the cats,
The scream of babies
The scream of love
They scream of could be, should be, would be and maybe’s
The hope.



Suffocated by the marching armies
By the dictators
that are the tower’s, the factories, the school’s
  that stand above the clouds,
   in these towns.

"that'll be thirty dollars" says the cashier
and I willingly hand him the money
knowing I could take my groceries and run

society has problems
but why is nobody willing to step up and fix them?
myself included

we all know we are bad people,
and we all know we are not willing to change.

Neon lights; they're taking away my rights,
advertising so bright, only capitalism in sight.
Slaving away, to make ends meet each day,
creditors barely at bay, with the same thing they always say:

"You're indebted to us,
we manipulated your trust,
and now we own you; head, feet and bust,
but it's your life and wallet that we lust."

Constant bills, money has lost all of it's thrills,
no heat; you freeze and chill, then starving; being poor kills.
Yet still it seems so, they think you have the money to blow,
on the pointless things for show,
or on knowledge you will never know.

So tell me when will it stop?
When will the prices drop?
The well's dry and farms lack the crop,
the economy is doomed to flop.
From the advertisers, the supersizers,
the colonizers, the demonetizers.

Going to pray, that I survive another day,
to light a candle to show the way, but for the light I have to pay.
Now it seems to me, that Heaven is meant for the wealthy,
and our lives; a shopping spree, in this Hell we get for free.

So tell me how long will it be,
until Jesus' sandals are Nike,
and his **** cloth is Gucci,
and they trademark the word "Holy."

So tell me how long will it be,
until Jesus' sandals are Nike,
and his **** cloth is Gucci,
and praying will cost a service fee.