1. |
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|
Domesticated claws too dull to fend for selves at all,
dependence on the sovereign like they’re saviors
and not the cause.
Collateral damage. Humanity’s pace.
The animals still know their place.
Just consume and fuck and die. An innate acceptance of purpose.
The sun is not enough for us to subsist.
Exhale. Expire.
Small cogs and big kingdoms.
Contentment.
No “what went wrong?”s to retrace.
We crush omni-congruence to dust.
Too many wrongs to repair.
Here, we all bumble, hunched over,
obsessed with our reflections
as delicate creations are trampled underfoot.
Negligent soles impel the cessation,
and so
my life will be the fire that burns this empire to soot.
|
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2. |
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|
Apathetic static. Massive acceptance.
Concerned with who’s fucking
but not with who’s hungry or healthy or kind.
Invisible in the margins, the bastards of young are breeding.
The apostates now gather in droves at the shit end of a bargain.
It’s coming in through the walls,
through the cracks in the floor boards.
Before your lantern dims and you lose your reflection,
the ghost of your youth, the person you could have been
before you auctioned off whatever conscience you had left.
The vultures are eating themselves.
For the skeletons in the closet.
The meat of your argument picked clean by the beak of your rhetoric.
The feeding defeating the meaning.
The vultures are eating themselves.
This monolith exists to harvest the garnish.
Destined to be overthrown, unceremoniously disregarded in the undertow.
The people of progress are the cutters of rope.
Discarding the dead weight will surely keep us all afloat
This monument, this monolith, exists only to sink.
|
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3. |
This Rally Is A Funeral
02:23
|
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|
Red tie, black tie,
and on it goes unchecked.
Distract.
Dead hearts. Lead boots.
Cant leave the deck
of this plague ship.
Caught up in the antlers of stags,
heads hung at half mast.
Hanging on hopes that have long since passed.
We are complicit in complacency,
sheltered by the luxury of apathy.
They will thank you for your bravery and
wipe the oil from their mouth with the
flag they hand to your family.
Dead horse. Dry lake.
The beat goes on.
So much for the crop.
Red tie, black tie,
and on it goes unchecked.
Distract.
The same old shit will keep on playing on and on.
They will only kill the least human of us all.
|
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4. |
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|
The reverence of decadence.
The Golden Calf.
The calloused navigator is lost.
Loss is the lake where we wade in to drink,
only to drown.
Towns trapped in post cards,
lost in the greyscale milk carton portraits.
They have replaced all the missing faces with silver and glass.
Drag the lake and stack the corpses,
harvest the teeth and frame it as forfeit.
Leave out the reasons why you came here,
the profit margins will make it clear.
Sentience is loneliness and if you’re feeling something real,
be cool,
there’s always more shit to buy.
|
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5. |
Hope Has No Place Here
03:36
|
|||
|
I try I fail to make sense of this mess.
Meaningless events, disappointments,
empty threats, hollowness, holiness, helplessness
and “just a cry for help”
is still a cry for fucking help.
I’ve accepted that this is how I’ll always be
and that there’s no way out but a long way down.
If I were a ghost I could stop falling through the floor.
Corporate cigarettes in the anarchist wilderness.
Our resistance, our dependence.
When they declared the atheist possessed,
they said,
“you’ve made your bed and now we’re tying you to it.
You know we know what’s best so don’t look so upset”.
I want to know joy
but there is no joy within me.
I want to know peace
but there is no peace within me.
|
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6. |
Sisyphus Votes For God
05:16
|
|||
|
Prey exalts the predator.
The heaven-sent executioner, the cackling liar.
The funeral pyre, the altar where we lay our heads.
Pigs to the trough. Lambs to the slaughter.
The tearing of clothes and the gnashing of teeth.
The war profiteer and the fucking priest and the secrets they keep.
We’re all putting price tags on timelines.
The prophet reports promise
we’ll be saved.
We fall for the marketing campaigns.
The Eucharist is rich in iron-on smiles.
We’re all defined by our drugs.
It’s like we never get enough of fucking up.
We fall for the same old trappings,
tasking ourselves with propping them up, but
The Old God Is Dead.
Full mouths spew out nothing but shit
so empty mouths will take what they get.
Full mouths spew out nothing but shit and
demand that we thank Him for it.
The stench.
The decay.
The flesh stacked in his name
adding more weight pressed on this saint.
The decay of the flesh stacked in his name is
relieving the weight pressed on this saint.
|
||||
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