To all mothers
Why do you part your legs
the 21st Centaury
Didn’t you know
That this is our final station
Where the monkey sits and waits
For a debt that has long been owed?
And he will never be denied
That fateful stop is always present.
This is the city where the projector always runs
And all the jokers perform
For an indifferent audience.
Maybe we should have planned our escape
Before the monkey smiled
Instead of wandering like dumb beasts
That serve as an exhibit on some distant safari
Under the burning glow of
it gave us the TV and black lung.
we should be grateful
What other system allows you to own a Statesman?
Pay for the right to soil your water
Blacken someone else’s?
How else can you explain the waters’?
And this century’s
Taste of curdled milk
That sits in some hoarder’s fridge
Waiting for the next great war.
Everything that blooms
In the forest where we once played
Now a days.
Which is the land of the disposable hero
And disposable victim
Where do you think your babes will land?
The fool with a loser’s dream?
The second storey man
Who suddenly finds a good job beating tenants
For some cheap landlord
Whose smile hides a felony?
Or the industrialist who wallows in his moneyed hole
Or grows fat feeding on the blue collar?
Maybe the hero
will be torn apart for touching the wrong ass
Only to fade from the television
to reappear on those pages set aside for those who overstayed their welcome?
And did you think you could
Swim in this ocean of equations?
This is elemental my dear.
The only outcome when you try to defy these waters
Is a riptide that will pull you under?
What role do you really think you will play?
We all move like fish swimming in tumultuous waters
But too many of your babes think
Like a family stuck in heavy traffic
Crying that they are going nowhere.
This is where the deals are made to move on
and the monkey shits himself laughing
It’s called bad luck.
The grinder box is growing louder
In the voice of antiquity.
Don’t you hear it over the gears of the midnight carousel.
The monkey won’t be moving from window
So, you better teach your babes to dance
And dance well
And accept their names
As born schmucks,
Or perish by them.
The role of the new grinder monkeys
Is for those born into an already spent life.
Didn’t you know things tend to unravel at the worst time?
But when is there a good time?
All the celebrations have ended.
The holidays have been cancelled this year
According to the 12 O’ clock news.
The sold president claims we can’t afford them
And he suggests flagellation
As a replacement to a day off.
This is what happens when the doors to
Bellevue swing open
The lunatics cast their vote
Just before med time.
And this is why the birth you now inflict
On the new blank generation
Is a celebration in itself
Your sacrifice to the loaded hour
Where the party of martyrs
Under the sour winds
That blow in the coming shadow
Of the kakocracy
But the desert
dry dreams of your children.
But at least your sheets are clean.