My God My God,
Why haven’t you forsaken me?
So I’m here, guilty, it’s all too easy, the edge is so easy to avoid, I’m the few not the many, I’m lucky, blessed, I’m the fittest, the free-est.
There’s no battle to fight, no race to be won, just the monotony of easy success.
If I fail it’s the dole, the TV, chronic boredom of squatting.
I cannot fail, so I explore the edge, I explore that outer land of possibility, could I fall, can i go so far they’d never have me?
Can I do enough so you stop loving me, can I find the punishment for the guilt that surrounds, that absorbs, that hides in the back of my consciousness?
The Nine Million who suffer this, while I cruise. The countless in poverty, the women trampled by terrible governments.
Maybe if I watch enough of them on a screen, maybe if I listen to enough people getting righteously indignant, maybe if I subscribe to the right site, wear the right band, buy the right coffee…
But will it do anything, I know I won’t do enough cause I’m too well, I’m too, like you man, like me, like everyone. It’s not that one person can’t change the world it’s just I well I don’t want to.
I’ll never do enough and then I’ll have to put up with all those folks saying how great I am and I’ll know its just to feed my ego and I didn’t do it for good reason.
So what, I’ll sit here and slowly, petrify, ossify, become the missing link. The evolution of the soul stops here, this was the moment. The integrity destroying society who stopped it all.
Drama queen,
We know it isn’t that big a deal its just the death of a world order taking too long to happen, it’s just tectonic plates shifting from one age to another, it’s just a 33 speed slo-mo, the size of the change, the clear out needed, it’s so mammoth it’ll take forever, meanwhile I’m stuck here; bedlam on lithium and larium. A non-chem induced downer with the occasional incandescent, bubble-bursting explosion from man-made air into drowning water.
So what the point of my stream of cancerousness?
Who needs a point, apparently the meta-narrative is dead, as procrastinators love to spout.
Welcome back to my lecture, I mean life, I mean, I know I’ve seen however many million hours of adverts that have polluted every thought I’m capable of having, no song I know is short of corporate sponsorship. No smell isn’t packaged, sight is un-franchised, but then it’s full of franchises, except in the great out-there that is so aspirational it’ll make you vomit. Even going somewhere no-one’s been is destroyed when the competitivety you show by doing it makes you a loser.
Ach, Verbal diarrhoea
Blogger’s paradise becomes a restless hell as the formless shape that is my best mate appears and disappears in annoying mindless moments. He’s directionless even around the environs of his own home, even his own body, his being frustrates me and yet I’m as bad on the macro level.
He’s strung out on the check-out girl; somehow in his mind he thinks if he sleeps with enough of the proletariat then he’ll prove he’s human. He reckons there’s more wisdom in the life of the average struggling family than in the writings of everyone post 1900 but the truth is he’s just another target for Jarvis Cocker’s common people rant.
Some much bull and here I am adding to it.
Eventually conversation has to happen and when it does it about milk. The perfect fridge that we bought still can’t make the milk nature made last more than a few days past sell by. Apparently it’s lumpy and Kester needs nutrition.
So here we are on the edge of life, playing paper scissors stone to go to the maul and buy milk.
No comments:
Post a Comment