Stranger Than Fiction

there's a purpose, there's a goal,
there's a virtuos, and immoral,
there's a reason for all of this,
and I don't know what it is

I am one, and plural too,
I accept them but they exclude,
I could make sense of all of this,
but I don't know what it is

the seeds of inspiration never germinated in my mind,
the beacon of awakening is somewhere that I can't find, so
I don't know what it is

there's a beginning, and there's an end,
there's a climax, some would contend,
there's a way to signify this,
but I don't know what it is

automatons with business suits clinging black boxes,
sequestering the blueprints of daily life
contented, free of care, they rejoice in morning ritual
as they file like drone ant colonies to their office in the sky

I don't ask questions, don't promote demonstrations,
don't look for new consensus, don't stray from constitution
if I pierce the complexity I won't find salvation
just the bald and over truth
of the evil and deception

there is an inner logic,
and we're taught to stay far from it
it is simple and elegant,
but it's cruel and antithetic
and there's no effort to reveal it

graduated mentors stroll in marbled brick porticos
in sagacious dialog they despise their average ways
displaying pomp and discipline, they mold their institution
where they practice exclusion on the masses every day

decorated warriors drill harmless kids on pavement
simulating tyranny under red alert
protecting the opulent and staging moral standard
they expect redemption of character and self-growth

(no equality, no opportunity,
no tolerance for the progressive alternative...)

now here I go,
hope I don't break down,
I won't take anything, I don't need anything,
don't want to exist, I can't persist,
please stop before I do it again,
just talk about nothing, let's talk about nothing,
let's talk about no one, please talk about no one, someone, anyone

you and me have a disease,
you affect me, you infect me,
I'm afflicted, you're addicted,
you and me, you and me

I'm on the edge,
get against the wall,
I'm so distracted,
I love to strike you,
here's my confession,
you learned your lesson,
stop me before I do it again

you're clear - as a heavy lead curtain want to drill you - like an ocean,
we can work it out, I've been running out, now I'm running out

don't be mad about it baby,
you and me, you and me,
I want to tie you, crucify you,
kneel before you, revile your body,
you and me, we're made in heaven,
I want to take you, I want to break you,
supplicate you, are incurable,
I want to bathe you in holy water I want to kill you,
upon the alter, you and me, you and me

individuals run for cover,
for the multitudes of thoughtless clones have reached a critical mass,
individuals hide in fear, under cover,
sheltered by the wafer thin veil of intelligence

individuals, nowhere to be seen

urbana is oozing like a bloated carcass,
with maggots cooking in the desert heat,
oozing, with progeny writhing and desperate
for input from someone more determined

congregating in invisible circles,
half apart and half apart,
all too aware of the insignificance,
pushing on with soul and heart

individuals don't pray for forgiveness,
when pinned up against the wall under siege of persecution,
individuals command exception,
and accept dichotomy,
maybe you can't choose anymore

procreation without gain or purpose,
languid wills and torped minds,
catapulted ever faster by the arrow of time

every time you shake someone's hand and it feels like your best friend,
could it be that it's only superficiality?,
without regard to well-being, without an inkling of compromise,
handshakes are nothing but a subtle 'fuck you',
contracts determine the best friendships

this is the way of the modern world, everyone's vying for patronage,
this is the way of the modern world, and something has gotta give

every time you shake someone's hand,
and you share neither color or creed,
you gotta overcome the obstacles of history,
there is restrained passion, mistrust, and bigotry

and these have created the new foundations of society,
there's no harmony just class and race

this is the way of the modern world,
everyone's fighting for dominance,
this is the way of the modern world,
and something has gotta give

now I believe in unity, and I am willing to compromise,
but I'm not gonna lie or sell my soul

every time you shake someone's hand,
it determines where you stand,
and if you won't uphold your side then it's better to
fend for yourself, and shun the handshake,
someone's gotta give

a febrile shocking violent smack
the children are hoping for a heart attack,
tonight the windows are watching,
the streets all conspire,
and the lamppost can't stop crying,
if I could fly high above the world,
would I see a bunch of living dots spell the world stupidity?,
or would I see hungry lover homicides,
loving brother suicides,
and olly olly oxenfrees,
who pickaside and hide

the world is scratching at my door,
my morning papers got the scores,
the human interest stories, and the obituary

cockroach naps and rattling traps,
how many devils can you fit upon a match head?,
caringosity killed the Kerouac cat,
sometimes truth is stranger than fiction

in my alley around the corner,
there's a wino with feathered shoulders,
and a spirit giving head for crack and he'll never want it back,
there's a little kid and his family eating crackers like thanksgiving
and a pack of wild desperados scornful of living

the worlds is scratching at my door....

cradle for a cat, Wolfe looks back,
how many angels can you fit upon a match?
I want to know why Hemingway cracked,
sometimes truth is stranger than fiction

life is the crummiest book I ever read,
there isn't a hook, just a lot of cheap shots,
pictures to shock and characters an amateur would never dream up

the brown and orange sky holds its breath
as the sun retreats to the distant horizon,
and our hearts palpitate anxiously as we soon will lay supine,
and wait for sleep to overcome us

and from somewhere in our black,
subconscious minds when we're asleep,
comes a haunting swelling mass of voices,
resonating, its screams of forgotten victims and the cries of innocence,
and the desperate plea for recognition and recompense

tiny voices, echoes of our heritage,
our long and sallow faces turn the other way,
tiny voices, harbored deep within
as we outwardly deny that they have something to say,
and if we don't confront them they will never go away

the billions of tiny pinhole embers fade into a morning sky
filled with poignant morose wonder,
waking a bear a cosmetic peace that verifies the turmoil
which we carry deep inside