“Normality” people cry
And I can’t help but ask
Why?
A slave to the wage
Already trapped in a cage
What is it about life before
That you are all grieving so much for?
The freedom of which you speak
Having to book a holiday for a ******* week

Yes I miss a warm embrace
I want him here kissing my face
Technology overload
So ***** I’ll explode
Yet somehow I know
That back to ‘normal’
Is not where I want to go

When this is over
You’ll book that holiday
And take the next flight
To some far away place
To have the same sun
On your face
Then back to your cage
A slave to the wage

This simulation was not a success
Mother Nature cries
You’re all a ******* mess
She’s given you a chance
A time to pause
To reflect
To ponder
To dream
Yet you dare not ask
What does all this mean?

Do you sit there and wait
For world leaders
To decide your fate?
Will you choose to do good?
To have compassion for those
Where isolation is all they know?
Locked away behind bars
With their trauma and their scars
Out of site
Out of mind
They’ve been left behind

When this is over
I’ll ask myself the question
What do I yearn for?
And the answer will be
As it’s always has been
Freedom
From normality

February 8th, 2018 - 11:06pm. In. An. The. How much deeper will this go? This desert. This baron land and escape from the moonlit evenings’ effervescent engineering of short-lived Neanderthals. These voices are enough to split our hides through and through like an cheese grater, that pants-boots combo chases us into the early morning forecast. I need to get out with her. We need to get out from here. We need to go out from this place. There are hexes and hieroglyphs places matte with ill-defined Finnish designs. There is the yolk and that which copies it. There is the phone and the web of tangling eyes whose corpus is mimicry. I am the notes and the music is taking me down, down, down. Whether it’s our dreams or the sweats that keep us ratcheting our bodies beaten eyes hooked to the cadavers we once chose. Now it’s up to you to choose. This is the fuse that we’ve let loose, maybe your furnace can curtsy and observe these sad blackened buffoons while they make us shrivel up and go hide back in our bed cocoons. This is a zoo I tell you and you tell me. This is a zoo of mayhem, hedonists, and 400° degrees. These are the tiny beds we hide in until they melt us down, into the heirs of our highness, our luxuries quick to abscond.

Tuffy skinned a cat
Behind Walker Bros. Stores;
He was probably in on
The sand-girl's situation,
But no one believes her;
Yet believe Tuffy capable of such.
He wrestled ostriches and kangaroos
At Jungleworld,
Real ones.
Some say the animals were old and drugged,
But Tuffy pinned them all the same.

Margo's house burned to the studs
Following her ***-driven ******.
That was thirty years ago,
The same time Jungleworld,
With its spiders, snakes and caged bear
Died off with Tuffy and his peacock,
And the secrets of his take downs and holds.

I never saw Tuffy perform
His flaming knife-throws,
Destroying balloons between lips,
Slicing straps with his swordplay.
He would've thrived in Venice with Leonardo,
Dazzling Popes and Princes,
Who would be benefactors and patrons.
Tuffy would have lived in a villa,
On a mountainside, overlooking his audience,
And applauding them for their attention to detail.

Somehow the gate's been opened
To the urban zoo;
And the rural petting farm
Is something gone askew.
The wildebeests and monkeys
Are leading lambs and lemmings,
They're trumpetting their call,
I hear them through the concrete wall.