A human habit universal,
our measure of success by possessions to envy.
An infernal curse—commercial purveyors, trinkets
of gold and gem,
shining blinking, fabrics glistening;
the value of thing manipulated by
them insect kings.

By lion's fang and butterfly guise they rule,
a hubris deceiver upon their shoulder
obscuring their likeness to those
serfs upon whom they
cunningly demand servitude, otherwise
be starved, put out, forced to watch their
future falter—sons and daughters
failing in flight, their
wings clipped prior first spanning.

Locust clans spurred to fight over resources, who
sell and buy back nature's bounty once
formed anew into advertisement's subject.
Oceans emptied of fish, forests becoming myth,
uplands turned to wastelands,
abomination fog a spherical prison choking
earth's inhabitants—the marketer's dowry
paid for marriage to a precarious economy.
Royalty made rich at cost of labouring spine,
but worse—
our home and thereby our hope we consign.

By their futile attempt to survive,
the locust instinct to consume,
until all is gone we contrive,
the inevitable a meet with our doom—kings
with stained glass wings to follow soon.
So small are we amidst this vast existence;
the ambitions of men
barely bigger than an insect's significance.

Hey I have an idea~

Lets destroy ourself and see who gives   a ****. With each passing breath I go deeper. Deeper into the thought that tomorrow doesn't exist. Because it doesn't. Why not see what happens in this moment.

All they come for is the lights. Flashing endlessly.

Overwhelming I stare at the sidewalk. A jab of pain hits my stomach. It's like the billboards  are killing me.


Because they are.

The shining, gleaming, easy-wipe
linoleum-tile future is here!
You’ll be the talk of the town,
with our new and improved model
hard at work in YOUR kitchen!
DE-LUX features now available
at a low low cost for the smartest, most efficient,
top-of-the-line psyche of your dreams!

Deceit, my throne
Agony, my crown
Within an ocean of tears, the silent man drowns
Pain so clear, across this grim façade
Life serene, cut so close, by this paper god
This seed of market and stock, supply and demand
The story of capitalism written by greed’s melancholy hand
A story so sad, imbued with regret
Consumerism the tragedy- heresy is debt

November is the cruelest month, destroying
What once was for what will be
The snow will stalk our dreams, hoping
To fill the emptiness of another summer’s end
Earth will forget the dead
As I forget what it was to be a student

Labour fuels my hours, surviving
One year to the next, a broken man
Where is the Spring I once knew so well?
Where is my heart in this cruel world?
Where is time but in these broken images?
Memory is insufficient to be my food

The wind howls and I am the trees
Who have endured so much, again and again
The famous shadows on the ground mean nothing
They are what they were, darkness spreading
These unreal cities are all the same
With their cosmopolitan jargon and anonymity

Each trying to out duel the next, competition
In the workplace, in the dating market
One must be so careful these days
Friends depart without a trace, elders die
Families get divided, partners divorce
The winter dawn has its own beauty

A short and infrequent storm, the bloom
Of white to carpet our weary feet
On roads of fate, sometimes without shelters
Without kindred souls who know us deeply
The synthetic atmospheres of urban life
A society of white walkers, whose truth

Only mimics the fallen empires of liberty
The false figures of unemployment rates
Which do not count those who have given up
Indebted states, welfare states, police states
And the persistent rumour that democracy is dead.

We all live in a kind of exile
Searching my heart for
It’s true sorrow, I found
So many people I easily enjoyed

Trusting as I am of their goodness
I had not assumed the opposite
Could be true, and thus
I lived a more lonely life

My introverted years
Becoming weary of words
Weary of people, what is left?
Always, I climbed the wave

Of sunscarf at morning
And shook my shoes of sand
At night, but I am caught
Beneath great buildings

And a world that doesn’t care
I can feel its weight bearing
Down on me, confused with
So many lights, all capitalism

All consumerism, nowhere
The human heart, I am
Too long away from water
Too sparely close to green

Loved by too few members
Of my own people, where are they?
When all the beauty I know
Of this world, can only stiffen
For the tragic tribe of Autumn.

The little boy left his soccer ball on the field,
perhaps to be kicked around later,
only to find it missing.
And it was a gift from dad.
So dad bought him a new one,
and the little boy decided to keep it in the trunk,
and never play with it.
And he just picked up another hobby.
Years later, he found his soccer ball-
deflated.
So he went out and bought a new one.

Heavy weighs the death
Of childlike ideals
Their hollow corpses rotted
With severed wrists

The media says “tell no one”
Sleepwalk through reality

I cannot want
I cannot lust
For faces
In a world of masks