"dream"

why doth the world shave off the film, throw away the best,
to war, to help the common good, to patch leaks in the dams,
why doth the world harbor ills toward dreaming, to fantasy,
when fantasy is where we were born, inside the glass gates.

far past the land of devils sit the makers of our world,
asleep in purpose so long forgotten, past caring, they fucked up,
giving us free will only to murder and hate, hoping we'd love,
our neighbors, our friends, the people we pass by, ourselves.

fast past their land of gods sit the makers of THIS world,
the sewers that overflow when the tears of ages wash away trails,
hobbit paths and sewn seams of dreams, chances at that place,
the home of plush growth and utterly denied hope, the place inside.

walk down the street, look in the eyes of the people you step on,
walk down the road, look to the face of souls dying or long dead,
talk to your family before they turn their mind to escaping, leaving,
just anything at all instead of waiting for the fires to cleanse, clean.

no fire or flood can wash away the emotions laced upon the lips of the earth,
it soaked up every moment since man first tread, since disease first bred,
the world has seen it all and so much more, but our eyes are closed,
afraid of truths we know are so, happy in ignorance, bliss coating death.

to walk upon the street at night you see peace in death, or travesty, shame,
to walk outside in hustle and bustle you smell the sweat of scores, legions,
feeling every drop of hate, of life and escape, of fears and love, shocking,
biting away at your nerves until you cry, weep in sorrow over their pain.

no food on the table, no prayers said in private, for no gods answer, care,
all goods and services drank down, eaten hot from troth, alive outside the bank,
physical representation of greed and envy, making the children starve, die,
big screens on sale, buy them up and drink down the blood of their lives, now gone.

cable tv, 4000 channels, all access productions accosting thousands to poverty,
allowing thousands more to waste their days and nights, their eyes void of word,
images, blatant, subliminal, overt, sexual, ample and numerous, filtered on out,
so called wonder of technology that can't solve the pain inside, I hear only silence.

no books are being read, their covers are the important thing, how well they sell,
whom dies or whom lies, or whom falls in love with the gay preacher, once upon a time,
the end, so long folks and watch your ass on the way out, the way of the samurai,
anything at all but just as long as the truth isn't being told, to stay frozen, sold.

suck at their marrow, eat their muscle, devour their bone, do it right, put them down,
stop toying with their emotions, give them death as you draw them closer, every night,
don't hide the agendas or sales trends forever, stick them up your ass, declog, renew,
find something better to do than molest those dogs, the camera is on, a dog bites back.

if everyone stood at once and unplugged the screen someone somewhere would shit themself,
someone else would be called on their cell phone and halt the ascending star from "work",
other people would have heart attacks, and no one would get paid, ever, anywhere, anymore,
because the beer drinkers would not live as steve austin, the women like martha stewart.

in the haze and slurred morning to follow some counties would be whiped off the map,
their roads cleared of streetsigns, the cars parked in the lake, some bodies in the grass,
power wires would be wound around the police, their bodies burned and burning, ever more,
the donuts will go uneaten and no burgers will be made, someone somewhere will eat their kids.

tv, and fashion, games played and reaction, traumas relieving stresses, stored up,
songs striking the world of rich money hungry snakes into frenzy, the flute exists,
money and power, power and greed, envy and spirit, desire and insane need,
so many times and so many lines, so fully pointless to care, why, how, for?

enter up into this world when you stop dreaming, when your eyes stain gold and silver,
they'll be waiting for you with a bottle of cheap wine and a litre of the finest cream,
they'll massage your ego, and your inner thigh, fuck you over and over until sunrise,
then when you're bleeding, dying from the deep wounds, they'll part, go away, marauders.

the sun sets on your cheap wooden casket, no one is there for the funeral, there's no food,
it starts raining and even the guy digging your hole goes home, afraid, alone,
he stayed to make sure you got buried, but even he doesn't care, your last friend leaves,
so every day, every hour, remember that sight, enhance this photo, dream and dream and dream.