Rolling dice in the garden of eden
Take chances so my heart will keep beatin
Got a bad hand but I'm still goin all in
Greed and avarice is my choice of sin

Gold chains are what I want  choking my throat
A sinking feeling on a sailing boat
Need gratification to stay afloat
Feelin sick I'm greener than my banknotes

Take risks play games with my life for a chance
My life interwoven with my finance
Paper and tokens have me entranced
Material things have me romanced

Things always there when I reach for em
Name your price and ill hit the atm
Ask for my soul and its no problem
Losin blood, sweat, and tears its no problem

Love can be bought
Friends can be bought
People can be bought
Rights can be bought

Money and chance is what I call god
I have lived life committing fraud
When life is so deeply flawed
You have to make your own god

Worship something in a sea of nothing
Statistic and chance the sweet nothing
Of something intangible feels so loving
Imaginary value and numbers my calling

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.

“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?

Is it relative
to the struggle
to live
that worked
its way
from all
the epic yesterdays,
each generation
passing dna,
each saga
set in stone
by the sages
who remember?

Is it based
on the formula
of hourly wages
times the time
we put in
constantly working
as a cog in
the machine?

Is it
a product
of relationships
from familial
to all of our
friendships?

Is it
measured
by potential
future achievements?

Or are we just
pounds of flesh
easily discarded,
meat for the factory
cannon fodder,
children to the slaughter?

I wonder,
what is the value of life?

Fur coats, Malboro smokes and fancy labels,
Fabricated faces closed off, segregated, false.
Pretending to be these people, these cloned plastic dolls.

Dark lips, skeletal figures and decadent glances,
Small waists, tall bodies and negative spaces
With hearts going nowhere, only lipstick traces.

You like to talk about people, about insignificant things
Not birds, or mountains or the potential life brings.
But just remember this: you will never tower over a mountain or grow any wings