Close your eyes.
Imagine you are George Winston.
It is 1984.
You are concerned about Big Brother watching you.
The technology of control scares you.
The clock is striking thirteen.
Hey! Hey! Hey! She was just walking down the street, and they come blasting, chased by the heat. The kid is playing outside while he is asleep, and now one is lost with memories left to keep. And some days I can’t even watch the news. It’s killing me to see the good guys lose. ‘Cause guns are not the things of play. This weapon claims lives and …continue…
One of the car bombs peeled the lawn, then the smog cleared up
Anton stood palmin’ a beer mug, molotov in his pocket, balaclava & earmuffs
His parents feared him for obvious reasons: contras, arson, accomplished theft
was even dubbed a son of a gun…he used on his father when he shot him dead
Aimed white phosphorous at convents & consulates, dishonored catholocists
A martyr in his solemnness with the mark of the apocalypse
Now he’s out to make sure the carcasses of Sodom writhe
Used to be a postmodern kid, but now he’s not so nice
We are outliving ourselves faster than we can resurrect ourselves.
We do not have time to wait, but we have time to scream at walls with righteous ears that won’t answer back.
Put us all together and what do we spell?
Where are the exclamation points among us?
We are fed up with remedies that cure too quickly and rob us of our chance to look at our true teacher.
There are rule makers around us, who do not mistake us for law abiding citizens, but for what we are-which is?