Imaginary Maze

 

The happiness is there for the taking.  Remember back, look ahead, feel the now.  This is a minor miracle, our very existence, no telling what's to come.  The wine was cold and tasty last evening, the antibiotics were kicking in, old pictures and talks.  Bust out of this imaginary maze.

With investment democracy, the swift survive.  Just when the heels get worn in, then the scramble of gathering balance, then the squeeze.  The arrogant deserve their fate.  Hold on through the panic, this boat will float fine, no dumping things overboard, no mutiny, no unity in the dark shadows.  Only light.

The fencing is permanent, entrance is for 'authorized individuals.'  Those with authorized papers, apparently.  Inside, the fumes are oppressive, oily and bitter.  Snide and awful gangsters.  The smell of them can be detected from 1,000's of miles.

Ready To Knock

Imagination is best.  All the colors, flashing.  Remembering late drive homes, windows cracked to get some air flow.  FM Radio stations played classic rock too much, just ran the same old tunes.  Needed a talk.

Compositions on a grand scale, like a nest of hot rats, 1969 was an interesting year.  What to do, what to do after peace and love.  Bring me dead flowers, we'll make it through, bring me dead flowers for these January blues.  Twinkle on, lights, twinkle on.  Darkness is easy, darkness is a lie.

The minute is now, write the scene.  You're superiors are waiting for the scripts.  Corrections, alterations, nice effort with the demo, strong lyrical moments.  Needs some formula, maybe a few shots of conformity, another somatic pill, a tone down, the forbidden must be hidden.  But it's no demo, no, no, no, it's ready to knock, it's ready to roll.

 

Those Ridiculous Books

 

Loud and proud, with a message of exclusion.  The negatives don't lie, the tape was running.  Played out to its inevitable end.  Mutually assured destruction, just scram and let it dissolve.  Nothing is without end.

Book companies are signing on the dotted line, as they melt.  Words matter now, not books.  Say exactly what you mean.  These muters are criminals of America, these muters are pure conformists, these muters will be muted themselves.  Ignored and avoided.

Simon's Schuster, the House of Random, Collins and Harper.  And the others.  Mush publishers, only mush allowed.  Write this mush, read this mush, think this mush.  Robots write those ridiculous books.

The Mush Machine

 

The waters will draw back, like they do.  For a surreal bit.  Gathering and gathering, swirling and rushing.  Nature's strength, accumulated.  At its most.

We'll see, hear, and smell the decay.  Grab your cash quick, that's what this is about.  Navajo will get ripped off again.  The sad clowns do not care, but they smile like sad clowns anyway.  Blame it on the system again, blame it on the way the world works, blame it on each other.

Generations from now, the people of this place will know, they will know of the scam.  The robbers of DC, the oozing class.  Robotic manipulation of minds, glowsoaped, lathered, and rinsed.  Crank the mush machine some more, bring out the entertainers, let's all giggle.  Bye, bird.

Worth The Cling

 

Pride is dead.

Thankfully.

Let it be exposed.

Misplaced trust.

Just an ideal.

That is no longer.

A trap of sorts.

Sort of a riddle.

There is no calling.

The city's not answering.

We are alone with each other.

Dignity is worth the cling.

But pride is dead.

Colors Of The Future

And we were absolutely free.

There was no hassle.

Not one invasion of my personal space.

Utterly liberated to do or say or think anything.

This was ludicrous, this oppression.

Even if it was imaginary.

Like the twisted stories.

The rage and the craving for injustice.

Let the crying river fill up more.

Its banks will be overwhelmed by the surge.

Emotions cannot contain the tears.

They must flow, yours must flow.

But these eyes are bright, they sparkle.

They care less than they used to.

They mourn no longer.

They see visions, the colors of the future.

Boo Boo Of The Nanny Nanny

 

All the righteous gathered to bathe in their righteousness, completely without understanding or shame.  The cameras were rolling, they were masked.  Sure their glass houses will hold, even as they crack into millions of pieces.  Sweep the chards off the floor.  We see you as you are, not as you wish to be seen.

There was crying and moaning.  Crocodile tears mostly.  Made up, the Boo Boo of the Nanny Nanny.  Crud.  Pure crud, pure and simple.  Plain, without flavor, without seasoning, with bitterness and manufactured rage.

Arguing seems useless, even if won.  The righteous already surrendered the intellectual high ground, they don't need it, they are righteous.  Dimmers, Muzzlers, Censors.  These are the hateful, washed, and dumb among us, the downers.  A waste of your infinite mind, a waste of your finite time.