This is a subcultural song

Free energy efficient enthusiasts
Replaced the iroquois punk style
Alternatives, noisy *******; ear
Damaging drum bass boxes in da
Clubs. Ravishing rave parties in
Mini skirts, glam glossy brass on
Ecstatic strobe-light synthesis - a
Synthetic mainstream paradise
Submerged to hypnotic sucklings
On the colourful plastic pacifiers
A gummy retreat before waterless
Collaps. A dehidrated dream that
Tried to shut the world off by the
Tendrils of regression resemblance.
Adult babies aboard going back to
The false long forgotten innocence.

There is no subculture in being above
The depth. Superficiality seems a posh
Pose and a good hiding reason for socially
Awkward childish rebels without material
Issues. The sore tissue of contemporary art
Is people don't believe in subjective objective
Selves anymore. What authorities put on the
Shelves there - it has to be good-when on the
Real deal discount. You think im not of such
Kind. Sheepishly blindfolded herd lives some-
where else. I pity them. Mock the socially meek,
Unajust, fat, poor or a greek profile. It has to be
A button hot child candy nose to **** her or to
Call a beauty per se. Per american dream team.

***** are hot untill they have pneumatics, man
Are man if they whirl the banknotes under bank
Accounts. ******* act like man in disguise greedy
For more. I inhabitated all this inherently ugly
Preachy words instead of puking into a labdab
Lavatory and cleanse myself from repulsively
****** cultural intermittent artifacts. And how
Can i not subdue to its overwhelming pressure.
I'm just an indigo child of flower children. Don't
Throw me the bones fueled with the black golden
Marrow. I'm a new alternative peasant, growing
Carrots and celery at bio degradable villages. . .
Its not a contra cultural venture if your socks
Are made out of industrial cannabis, and yet
There's no need to. Think. Love. Play music.
Listen. Breathe. Live life as if yours favourite
subcultural song is repetedly on...going along

It’s eight pm and I am still at work
Building machines, have I gone berserk ?
No work on the camper in over a week
A holiday at Easter  is looking bleak
My partner  alone, at home, poor creature
To remind her of me she has asked for a picture
The boss has left he is going to dinner
What about us?  We are  just getting thinner
The  team and I,  we just ramble on
The time we spend here, forever gone
To finish on time,  management is wishing
As for some of us here, we would rather be fishing
I think of the machine when I am supposed to be sleeping
No proper drawings, the problems just heaping
thoughts of steam valves and tangled pneumatics
I  think we are becoming machine  fanatics
Being motivated by irrational enthusiasm
my brain is starting to go into spasm
maybe there is light at the end of the tunnel
or is it a  a train heading towards us  to pummel

Gears turn
Pneumatics actuate
Machines run
The same way
Every time

No flow
No chance
No identity

Just interpreting electrical signals
And responding mechanically

heaven! heaven! far too long
    have we forgotten to
whisper white clouds
                        into existence, the wavering
uncertainty of birds
    made into rote algorithms;
    the unnerving way that
lungs fill can
                 begin to unravel the yarn
that wraps around the trees
                 and trees
        are nothing too special -- i'd say

stratus (stratus
(cumulonimbus)
) infinity
at stake:
        streaks
(oh there's my
    soul somewhere
amid the pneumatics)