April 29th 1999, I am handed a grubby xeroxed flyer that tells me I am being fed lies.
The media tells you what your puppet masters want you to hear. It is the MACHINE.
The military industrial complex. Work, Consume, Die. What is a wildin’ child to do!?
BECOME TO MEDIA, and well now! Isn’t that a thing to do!
You wanna print some 11×17’s brother man, and get some wheatpaste cookin to post these babies in the night?
We’ll capitalize on the terror of 9/11 with some big exploding buildings on our posters, we gon’ do this propaganda shit up RIGHT.
Had our messenger bags with a big pile of copies and go fence jumping like misanthropes
YOUR LEADERS CAN’T PROTECT YOU! BUT THEY CAN GET YOU KILLED!
Dodging the hint of siren blue red flashing sirens like the herd’s most agile ANTELOPES.
I ain’t fucking lion. We were tiger balm in our best boys baseball gloves that night.
I feel like I could take on the whole empire myself.
And mother fucker I just might.
There was a lovely maiden in my high school career as the outsider white knight – who though she claimed to love me
once told me at my lowest rooftop point in our close up scene –
You know – you’ll never really change anything. You know this, right?
And now, 65million years later. I am a re-animated dinosaur, trying to get a piece of flesh from the lucky scraps
that fat intern at the computer help desk happens to neglect safety and drop around the kiosk as he steals away his snacky orange-dust hands from the dispenser, we’re just exhibits in the park
Half the ones you admire are wishing for full on shark week collapse
The other half only whisper something true once in a while, in full dark
It seems like there’s a candle light way down the tunnel, at the end
But the guy who reads schematics, and the paleontoligist brave enough to meet the park-people face to face
They are so far apart, walkie talkie-ing stranger things, some upside down cake, it’s all
left out in the rain, the recipe is it’s own disaster
the goddamn car in the tree proves falling in love and sticking around,
are separate arts
I want to meet you in the ruins
But I’m a survivalist barely alive whose A/C went out the past six days and I know I am better versed to speak to the disaster of our century than any rich man telling me things don’t – they just don’t! – fall apart
I want to take a meat cleaver to your leave it to beaver gabagool
you fucking dinosaurs taking a terror shit at the end of your series to break my non-castrato heart
My friends –
let me make this clear
My friends are the birds… And Most of us are falling out of the sky.
The ones that survive… in this landscape you call heaven’s-waiting-room-amusement-park- WE MUST REBUILD NEVER MIND THE DINOSAURS THE INVESTOR INSIST, THE MONEY’S GOOD, HELL IF THEY ESCAPE WE’LL CALL IT
ADVENTURE
Disaster Capitalism
It’s Part of the PLAN
Those who can afford to – will survive
But WE ARE NOT ALL JUST CARRY ON
Some of us ravens have taken to the cigarettes you drop, and drop them into tinder boxes
Some crow about arson’s benefits to flight beyond
Some pelicans scoop poison from environs and drop them in the gullets of the ones who break our
habitatuations
A MURDER
is not to be taken for dead
Because we hang out on these wires and plot our own pall bearings at poor children’s funerals
We lift up those who you would drop in
wells of tears of business as usual
The french fries on the boardwalk you
so frantically rebranded as freedom’s thoughts
falling from your war criminal hands
we bury underground until we realize – twenty years on
you have got no fucking plan
you want to be the MAN
but you are a child sending us to die in another BIRD’S SAND
but i ain’t mad… I am just evolved, from dinosaurs to skwaking claws
to fly off this island where you gives us nothing but dark night
what we need is prometheon’s
the fire stolen ? YOU’RE NOT GOD
it belongs to YOU, MY PEOPLE
creak out the wings that tired, sleep
and chains give back to prison-keepers!
Your Leaders Are Not Your Leaders, But Gilt Cage Illusion Keepers
They Show You Screens and Make Your Featless
They Clip Your Wings
They Sell You Remedy – But LEECHES!
Jump off a cliff – and build your wings on the way down
that’s the only way I’ve found to out fleet them
their lives are not exceptional,
the chances we have, are not exclusively outflanked by where the difference in equations
squeak clean
the core is molten
the feathers, are yours,
you hopeless ones
the god chained to the rock
is you
everyday, it will grow back
get up, take stock
the dinosaurs are flocking
to rebuild the electric fencing
but the sky is not a cage
the future is not their stage
we are not done evolving
NOT YET
The Haunted Typewriter 