Twilight
The rain taps against the window and turns the street into a mirror that reflects the dull yellow haloes around the lights and the waiting parked cars
It only gets darker from here
And it's becoming clear the chance that morning reappears has all but disappeared
Sitting there silent behind the glass, fast asleep in the tv, unaware with a stare so vacant no light or thought can enter in or penetrate deep enough to set off a spark
Keep out the question marks; it's hard to eat comfortably in my seat if I think there's something beyond the street, because it's all about me
This is as deep as I go
Well, I hope
Although I wonder sometimes what's beyond the surface I know, the gaudy clothes and the shallow range from me to the remote...
But the volume's too low
Sell me my culture, part of the convergence of vultures feasting on sugar and air in a wasteland where everything has a thousand copies
My CDs are bright and shiny and satisfy me today; I play them on repeat in my SUV before they evaporate in the tray
It's the disposable world, curled around me and the short-sighted thoughts and wants in my vicinity; doesn't hurt me as far as I see, and being selfish never hurt nobody
So ride the circular logic down the slippery slope and see if where you end up justifies the pain and death you leave below; in your poem to power,, writing doublethink in your black ink, giggling while you scribble out the margins
You've got a sword to back up the pen and a backup plan to evade the charges
Now monopoly's played on a slope, so it funnels back over to the guy with the right start; compounds free of any counterweight check because compassion doesn't show on a cheque or an org chart
It's just inertia: make a system out of pushing people down, plundering resources and forcing compliance and dependence on whatever you dictate, with few other choices
Got the oversight underneath
Keep the pile covered until it reeks
When it leaks, counteract it with a P.R.Opaganda sweep to keep the lead buried deep beneath the empty news on page A19
Add to the strategy by convincing governing suits that it's alright with a bribe
On your side, you've got another line stacking up high as defence from the beasts shivering outside
Keep them occupied, so they can't rise unsatisfied and try to get across the divide; flood their eyes with fantasy so their bottlenecked minds won't let reality inside
Luckily I'm on the winning side, otherwise I'd be standing on the other side of genocide. He replies, "Right. God hates a brown face; they waste space, I have faith He wants them all sent to die
Don't think of it in terms of human rights, it's just efficient promotion of our ideal ideology
We just need a toehold
The painting's horrible, but it's framed really well, and that's all you need."
So the seed of distortion grows and blocks the sun, untruth and euphemism cloak a system of violence and keep it out of sight, out of reach from the apathetic masses with their glasses off, sectioned off in living rooms watching silence
Well I've found God and He's me; I'm a theocracy
And I ride in my chariot to worship at Mecca, the mall
Our wallets open and close and sing praises and prayers that rise overtop of the tallest screen
The halls are preened with pastel colors, silver, and light, that brighten the faces of other gods whose vehicles bow subservient outside
The truth lies if it's not viewed from my paradigm, climbing the mile-high pile of first prize circled by flies, ignoring the chorus of futile cries
I'd rather not err on the side of humanity, I'd rather call you my enemy than accede
I'd rather empty round after round into my feet and then aim for the knees
Please don't bother me, greed's not a deed that concerns me because Newton was wrong all along, and my actions don't have consequences: I'm walking on air, and I'm punching a wall
So I'll call the cup full and swallow the air that I'm rationed of fashion and passionless play and pray in a box, locked in my seat so my eyes never stray from the game, the same as every other day: ignoring the bleeding, uncaring and carefully keeping unknowing and occupied
The cycle of greed feeding apathy, apathy feeding the hunger for power, a flower that blooms in the distance as viewed from the calcium tower that showers the land with a white light, looming close like a third strike breaking through the windows at midnight
