Chickenshit

i'm alone like a stray dog in a park filled with ducks,
i'm alone like a virgin in a city full of fucks.
i'm alone with my thoughts that aren't as good as in the past.
i'm alone with my words and stay silent til the last

violent shudders rack my backbone, muttering i'm at home,
when i'm utterly submerged in this black zone.
i'm alone when i leave a club go home and kiss my goldfish,
to be atrociously rich, i'd have to suck dick and lose focus.
everything i write i edit after meditating,
it takes time to ferment before words can be intoxicating,
invigorating like hot rocks and steam from a jet setting
the scene in motion like molten earth waves paving the ocean.

all these people make my brain hurt,
and when it rains the same shirt soaked the night before remains dirty.
for it's thirty plus centigrate,
the skin begins disintegrating along with innovating ways of keeping cool,
all i smell is sweat and the taste of drool.

i guess hot is not as cool as it used to be.
that's news to my not knowing i'm not even wearing my own shoes see,
and loosely swearing deeply caring for brothers soul bearing and pouring out their booze,
i ask you "how else we supposed to know these hidden truths."

revolutionary art is the evolutionary start!
we're not enthused so we won't play a part for fear of losing
my generation is desparately needing an infusing,
of something soothing a transfusion if you will,
let's abuse this illusion and hollar till
we get our dollar bills back scholars still fill their knapsacks with kickbacks.

so i'm lacking an education or at least a piece of paper that says
i've passed and means nothing to me and my vast accumulation of this fucking knowledge
outside of the closed doors of a fucking monkey college.
unless you converse in commerce or commute between computer class
or you neutered asses in glass lab flasks handling gasses behind a white mask,
then you got it made in the artificial shade.

i'm a tarponds survivor, i've breathed a skyfull of pollution,
yet i'd rather be famous than be a part of the solution.
and when revolution starts let em all bleed cause indeed i'm the king of hearts
and my queen likes her screaming in between and not before never ever after,
in the meantime in between time she cackles laughter
like a fiend in line for methadone,
she needs to see excessive death whenever left alone.

so off with her head, and now i'm bound to expound,
it never hurts to spurt words to raise the ways in which the underground works.
it's so amazing. it's always better before the lenses rays start invading.
you hear it on the radio and still salivating.
but then the waiting ends stations start creating hits in this tradition,
now i can never watch tv cause i'm against full submission.

i open windows and it rains, i guess that explains my engagement
to the windows of the soul in gold plated frame arrangement.
we are the terminally ill, technologically advanced,
permanently still and breathe heavy on the off chance,
when i'm off in the distance waving my hands, hope they notice me,
i'm standing in their wasteland, knee-deep in chicken shit and poetry.