1. |
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Started up in Safe Mode
Feels like another day, if you say so
Same sights, same smell, same payload
Bright and early, home sweet CAFO
Another day where your employer
just cannot resist reminding you
they need you like a pay phone.
That you’re the lowest labor cost
that ever crossed the payroll
So Medicate your self-defeating dayglo
Scroll a dozen other lives and take notes
Take a load off,
take a quiz or two,
fuck it, stay home.
Your porn star name
is the last thing you ate
And your ATM code
Mine is a sigil,
eternally vigil,
the shape of a ward to preserve us
and aid in our darkest of days,
The Ages Of Bezos.
When Applebee’s sweetens the pot
on your 5th round booster shots
with a free small Queso
Another day where you wager it all
on a game called:
“Fuck me, where’d my apes go?”
Were they Right-click-saved,
Or Lost in the woods on the way to a lab
and a lifetime of product testing
for Proctor & Gamble?
And while I don’t mean to ramble,
I’m barely disturbing the surface
of what you could call the preamble
Prepping the table where all of the rich
will be seasoned and split,
their legacies stripped,
and the towers from which
they would pelt us with shit
will be toppled and trampled.
Drug through the mud to the bramble
All pleas ignored,
and the screams all cleared for samples.
And flipped to The rallying cry
of a turning of tides,
A working class YOU forged,
and YOU galvanized
through a lifetime
of beating them flat on the anvil
And I’m just one man,
But I’ll do what I can,
from my circle of candles
A synchronized laying of hands
on the handles
of studio doors where mass media vandals
all butcher the truth
to contort into angles
that groom you into
the most useful of fools
that you practically drool
to see Raytheon marking a nation
it seeks to dismantle
Your Porn Star Name
is the day you last ate,
and the word that first pops in your brain
when describing the taste of Police Boots,
and Bezos’s sandals.
And it can be the brand-new code word
for anything you don’t want heard
Cause you’re trying to keep
your YouTube channel
So go touch grass, baby,
shout it from the rooftops,
Carve it on the trunk of the tree of mana.
The Revolution won’t be televised,
but it will be felt
in every soul
like they’re electrified,
by the power struggle
rippling to life
like a working-class Arcana
Load up every cannon,
we will firebomb the history books,
and decimate the annals
Write in bold, unerring word,
“the peasants won the battle”
Get it through your talking heads
tell ‘em that we canceled all their panels.
Tell ‘em that they’ll have to find
some honest work,
there no longer lives the kind
of power They were here to serve
We’ll no longer give up half an hour
every night so we can placidly acknowledge
things are getting worse
Then bury our intentions in the sand,
antennae first.
We’ll no longer feed our children raw
into the senate’s maw,
and all to slake the market’s thirst
We’ll no longer be their hapless tributes
for the darkest curse,
All to feed a power
that was summoned up by Bilderberg
Wait a sec,
my heart just got a bit excited,
or a clot dislodged or burst,
I’m not sure if that would be
the best-case-scenario,
but, truth be told, it’s not the worst.
Your porn star name,
can be honest,
or exotic,
or mundane,
or it can be the brand name stitched on the velvet inner-lining of a donor’s purse.
They’ll trade you just the same,
honey,
profit is the dice, and the pieces, and the prize, and the name of the game.
Christ, Money is the motor nerve!
And they don’t really NEED yours,
everybody knows they’ve got their own reserves.
It’s not ABOUT money,
it’s all so they can feel a little power surge.
When they see their machinations on display, their silence fades,
they want to shout it bright as day,
that they end lives
and they break ground
just to proudly say they shape a global future
they’ve trilaterally deemed essential,
equitable,
pure,
and business-sound.
It’s ALL so they can feel a little power surge.
Shit, I bet they laughed and jerked it
when the towers burned.
Your porn star name
adorns a very shallow grave
But your one TRUE name
will be clear
a thousand years from now,
when this is just a town of ferns
When All the apes are gone,
and the Overgrowth is blooming off of every surface, filling every view, no matter how you turn.
Lush, and ever Gentle while admonishing a creature that just never learns.
Your name is an evergreen echo in a town of ferns.
And you don’t have a phone to check,
Just healthy breaths,
and rolling crests
of verdant surf
Immerse yourself
and drown the urge
in patient earth.
When all the apes are gone,
there’s only us to purge.
Your name is
“That which never learns”
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2. |
Shepherd Of Hopes
03:57
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If you fool me once,
it’s cause I didn’t think a guard was needed
If you fool me twice,
it’s cause I didn’t learn the lesson,
so it bears repeating.
If you try the same play three times running,
it’s because you know what’s coming,
and you didn’t come to lead,
you came to purposefully be misleading.
Democracy is dry
it spent a century bleeding
the husk is gaping open to the sky
out in the field where all the sheep
just keep on circling and worrying,
and bleating
Waiting for the Shepard
that they’ve tried to hide their faith in,
but he’s SO appealing
They gladly give their fleece,
it’s such a freeing feeling
that, even when he leads them to the ledge,
and starts to urge them on,
they’re positively beaming
They were told that they were on their way
to save democracy,
so even as they plummet, they just gloat,
they don’t consider screaming.
And, halfway up the cliff,
the shepherds cozy little mittens
wrap around the staff
of shattered human hopes,
on which he’s leaning.
He shows the gentle grin
that used to stir your inner spark
and he says “Not Me, US”
as he gestures to the Oligarchs
He knows that, if he runs,
they’re gonna stop him like a stolen car
and he’ll easily surrender,
cause it bought a lot of time for laying mines
in all the grassroots
Suddenly the tiniest of movements
gets you blown apart.
Suddenly, you’re in a play,
that’s set on an Election Day
and voting for the fire
unaware you’re playing Joan Of Arc.
Suddenly, the Shepard pulls the rug,
and slips a hood across your clueless mug,
and everything goes Zero-Dark.
I’m gonna warn you once more
before it’s 2024,
and you fuck around and find out
who your heroes are.
Take a step back from the herd,
and you’ll learn that you can spot
who all the shearers are.
If you really wanna know
the product that they’re selling,
I can take you where the mirrors are.
If you think your voice is finally ready,
I can tell you where the lyrics are
I hid them in a box
I had to bury neath the cobble
when they carpet bombed the promenade, and raided all the street bazaars
Now, all we got’s the Marketplace,
and you’re too broke to even bother asking
what the options for your treatment are.
Suddenly the raw debris
of homeless human dignity
will find it has a hundred teeth
for every badge and sweepers arm
Suddenly they speak in solidarity,
and each is armed.
Suddenly, the sheep can see the shepherd
for his truest form,
and all pitch in at once
to help him buy the farm.
Now it’s zero dark,
and all is calm and peaceful,
save the distant wail of sirens
that approach beside the flames of dawn
Suddenly, the carrot’s just a string
that’s on a stick,
and all your movements make you sick, because the prize is gone.
Now, we could go and flee into the forest,
low and meek,
or we can exercise our right to feast
and go and graze on Biden’s lawn.
Cause he’s been sewing seeds
that seep a toxin out
to sap a bit from each of us
and keep on leeching
decades after Biden’s gone
So, regardless who they summon out of hell
to come and do the job,
it will not feel like Biden’s gone
But in that time of hopelessness,
you CANNOT trust The Shepherd
when he,
once again,
comes asking you
to humor him his Siren’s Song
Cute that you can innocently, honestly assume that’s just a symptom of a system
that was wired wrong.
Not the standard feature, basic function, primary objective
of a mass-hypnosis fire bomb.
You don’t need to know the words to cry along
Some day it’ll hit you like an officer
who pistol whipped their ride-along
Broke his jaw, and kept his job,
and kept it moving right along:
Voting isn’t red or blue
or black or white,
or right or wrong,
Voting’s like a firing squad
where you can choose the firearm
It’s slow-extinction, by and large,
It’s super-Tuesday, supercharged,
It’s all your futures, Roots and all,
just tossed out on a garbage barge
It’s everybody dropping out
to push the biggest Oligarch.
It’s everybody voting “Fire”
Registered as Joan Of Arc.
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3. |
Two & Twenty
04:53
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Give me two and twenty,
Humor me my humble talents,
Let me weep a little bit too openly
for those we’re leaving hungry,
hanging in the balance
Hanging, lifeless, in the eagles talons
Wrapped in lines, a dozen times
around their local food drives,
just to find
they’re only serving heaps of Mayo Pete up
by the gallon
With a hearty double-scoop
of Biden’s Word Salad.
Cause Joe’s prepared a couple words,
(in no specific order)
to commemorate imaginary victories,
and it must be
a taste that you acquire
from the Democratic Palate
Cause I find nothing pleasing,
sweet,
nourishing,
or valid.
But here comes Jordon Chariton
and all his stunted clones
to take that tired Democratic tune,
and put it to the music of a patriotic ballad
Something that inspires you
to cough up 20 bucks,
and vote for four more years of civil servants telling you you’re greedy
cause you didn’t cream your jeans
to see their flaccid, snail-paced climate action.
Sorry I was not impressed enough
to go line up
to have my turn to chug directly
from the liberal vat of brunch relaxants.
Sorry I still have a scrap of morals,
so I couldn’t sleep at night
to know I led the working class
into the slaughterhouse
through promise of a greener pasture
Actually, I take it back, I’m NEVER sorry;
I would rather eat my fucking tongue
than write a WORD
that served those greedy bastards.
I guess that the fundamental difference
in what all too often passes as a Journalist
is just how swiftly
some will seek to satisfy their masters
And by “Some”,
I mean the only ones they tell you truly matter
I mean the only ones they don’t outright erase, or bury under peals of laughter
I mean the only ones who speak a truth
that we may not embrace
until we’re in too deep
to hope escaping our disaster
I mean the ones who seek to break the spell, and try to name the casters
Who shouldn’t need remind you
they have numbers, and addresses,
and are, each of them, disgustingly deserving of the kind of mortal fear
the roar of riot brings and blesses
with conviction like a pastor
We didn’t start the fire,
but we came to fan the downfall faster
Give me two and twenty,
I’ll be sharp, and quick, and funny,
then I’ll scream myself bloody
when you play that fucker backwards!
All the world’s a stage,
and the theater’s belching flames,
but, really, what’s more entertaining
than a playhouse full of lively actors?
Smoke gets in your eyes
like a diversion tactic,
Tacitly you lapse a little,
lax your guard,
and last thing you’ll remember
is your faction being fractured
and dismembered into fractions,
flecks, and fragments.
Last thing you’ll remember is an ugly dream
of fascists filling every fucking cabinet
The last thing you’ll remember is the travesty that Amnesty’s Assange support
was just this side of abstinence
The last thing you’ll remember
as a member of an audience
that never pays attention,
is the overwhelming feeling that, regardless,
you’re all captive in the ‘Captured’ sense.
So none of you can notice
if the words that you hear spoken
don’t match up to what the caption says.
In the end, the greatest Coup
was folks like Jordan using you
Til you think Revolution’s waiting
just beneath the surface
of the tar pit that our Democratic Status is.
In the end, the sound of all these propagandists buzzing, from their hottest, steaming takes, to imperialist sweet nothings
will all metastasize into a static cyst
And once you see the obfuscation
calcified before you,
you might look at it a moment, and think:
“How could we let that EXIST?”
“How could we have struggled just to breathe beneath the weight of all this cancer
bearing down on us,
and all we did was scream “Resist!”?
Nonetheless,
the Warmonger Queen persists.
She’s reducing men in global power to a simple list:
Who can keep a pedophile’s secret,
versus who might need
a little help to slow their lips
Who might need a visit in their cell
so there’s no risk that when they take the stand,
they magically remember every trip
they took to little st. James,
or every place they ever shook Podesta’s hand.
Who among us knows how many times
our flag has flown above the stage where a molester stands?
Only Clinton’s shadow knows.
Only Clinton’s fixer,
prolly bitter still from Navarone
Only Clinton’s cult
who worship Blackrock
cause they HAVE a home.
Give me two and twenty,
I’ll produce them each a catacomb.
I’m aware, in doing so,
I roll the dice, so each might be the final time
I walk inside and tell my son
that Daddy’s home
Give me two and twenty,
I can eulogize myself
and still have plenty left to shred
on Ken, and Jordan, Cenk and Geoff,
and Bernie, Nina, Nancy, AOC,
& Chuck & Joe & TYT
and every Twitter Toddler
who assumes that makes me GOP
Won’t see me sing on bigger streams,
I’ll snap your platform right in two
Just give me two and twenty,
here’s the worst that I could do.
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4. |
Hello, Somebody
02:37
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Hello somebody desperate
Hello somebody gullible
Hello anyone left who can swallow the bait,
who ain’t already rocking a stomach full
Maybe they knew, and they ate it the same,
cause there’s no other way
to assure that their stomach’s full
Maybe they just know that they love the taste, so they’ll put it away by the shovelful
So hello to somebody trying to feed us
the Light Blue shit, like it tastes any different, or makes any Democrat any less culpable
Hello to someone who couldn’t be troubled
to mention a march
for the Healthcare struggle,
and spent the day cozy
with donors who MATTER,
who keep your progressives
all wealthy and comfortable
I recommend your protests
be anything but peaceable,
And all your disobedience
be decidedly UNcivil
You don’t need a permit
to declare that you have principles,
And, love, it’s only natural
that seeing all these fascist assholes
stacking up the capital
would manifest in something loud,
and passionate,
and visceral.
Keep it in your heart, cause it’s the only way we’ll ever start to flesh out something livable.
Maybe that was literal.
Maybe our utopia is built from all the sinews
of the moderates and liberals
Salvaged when they broke their backs
with NPR gymnastics,
simultaneously hiding from the truth,
while sticking out their necks for Pedophiles, Nazis, and the upper-fucking-echelon
of World War Criminals.
But, babydoll, it’s not your fault,
it’s really all subliminal.
They’ve sewn the propaganda
into every thread of visuals
Grown the propaganda
off of truly noisome victuals
Rows of propaganda propagated out of ritual,
Straight into your ocular,
and straight out your occipital
Straight up to the point you flip
on everything that’s pivotal
Any crucial aspect of survival
for the middle class,
becomes the holy unicorn
you ridicule and snicker at,
and praise each piece of legislature
dancing round the borders
of the looking glass.
It’s not truly possible
to try and stop the suffering of people
that you spend each waking moment
simply looking past
Walking past a sobbing homeless family like:
“Look at that!”
“Bet they’d be in better shape
if they’d have voted Democrat”
Hello, Somebody ignorant enough
to still believe that there’s some fundamental difference in the moral stance between the couple barrels that they’re staring at.
Like one’s just got a slug,
the other’s loaded up with sarin gas
Both of them are pointed at your temple,
and they’re both equipped
to make this breath your final gasp
Hello somebody dense enough
to split the hairs
of which one is the kinder executioner
with what will be their final task.
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5. |
Obit
04:07
|
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If it’s ‘Death To America’, I’ll gladly pen the obit
For the global gods of terror who controlled the world like Covid
Prone to quickly flip their holy shit with zero notice.
All you’ll hear is the explosion
And when you flee to safety you’ll be blocked by close to 50 cops
whose radios don’t seem to function
Trigger fingers glued to their assumptions
Trigger fingers sworn that they’ll uphold
a code of bigotry that Biden signed in blood before the annual police union luncheon
Trigger fingers all too proud to punch in
Trigger fingers all too quick to end a life
with no investigation, or discussion
Safe to say deescalation isn’t any interest since it isn’t something they can stick
their new, expensive guns in.
It isn’t something they can taze, intimidate,
or rape, so they don’t really see it fitting
in their current surging budget
And we all know anyone elected
wouldn’t dare to dream to touch it
Hell, they jump
at any chance they find to fund it
They get a little giddy
when they pump the numbers up and push us closer to our future as an open-air dungeon
Dragging chains of raw corruption
So if it’s ‘Death To America’,
I’ll wager that the cause of death was part Consumerism, part Consumption
And I’ll bet it was administered
by wealthy, suited worms,
who excrete the viscous slime
of the immoral and the unctuous,
and slap a coat on every crack
in this collapsing structure
like they’re doing us a favor,
and not lathering their cancer
on the future that they stuck you with.
And they’re banking on the promise that a lot of us will be so close to starving,
that we wouldn’t look twice
before we stomach it
Hunger’s not a motivator,
Hunger is the hunter
that you rummage through the rubble with
Hunger is the capsule that they fill with all their finely powdered policies and stuff you with
And now, here comes
the Democratic voter base
to shame you
for not telling them you’re grateful
and that they’re the lesser evil
you’d prefer to starve and suffer with.
You could be another Warren voter pumping brakes on living wages cause you’re coasting on the victory of the suffragettes
Wait a half a century, and then we’ll have a dialogue that starts the conversation of a closed-door debate on the merits of a means-tested temporary wage increase of seven cents
Out beyond the shifting sands, and over the electric fence
Bloody revolution is the truest form of Self defense
Where every last dissenting word was taken in as evidence
Our hope for the future roars to life to cries of “revenant”
So when it’s ‘Death To America’,
I’ll reach for the accelerant
I will pen the obit, and be anything but penitent
I will pound the pulpit,
and be everything but reverent.
Cum my fucking brains out
So hard, it makes me celibate.
Then Stream it straight into your home,
Or closed circuit televis’
I know it’s not appropriate, or warranted, or relevant, but I’m just being honest and acknowledging the elephant
Before I pop the hinges on my jaw,
and relish every minute swallowing it whole,
to the delight of its constituents.
I’ll tell them that they’re free to live their lives without it’s influence
Tell them that the donkey’s next to go, so they should know there’s gonna be another incident
They should know that we will prove to be our own deliverance.
They should know the kinship of the living is invincible and limitless
They should know that anger is a way for hope to bloom, and not a way that hope diminishes.
So if it’s Death To America,
I’ll gladly pen the obit,
but I’ll probably never finish it.
I’ll add a line for every day we venture further out from where the capitalists settled down and shat out all their legacy and lineage
I’ll add a line for every time UnitedHealth was fine to tell another human being that their bottom line was heavily prioritized above the dollar-value they’ve decided their desire to keep living is.
Now, Raise your hand if you refuse to eat the truth that this is all that living is.
Raise your hand if you’re prepared to tell your representatives the future of the working class is vastly more important than their insulated living is.
Raise your hand if you believe your legislators don’t possess the faintest fucking inkling what the honest cost of living is.
Raise your hand if you feel like you can’t afford to truly know what living is.
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6. |
Kent State: Engage
03:09
|
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It feels like every other day is Kent State
And we’re the people watching from the safety of the gate
Muttering repeatedly “We’re gonna be okay.”
Little did we know our fate was forged, and on its way
Little did we know our last names were on a collar with a binary chain
Little did we know they’re only working through the ‘A’s
So at most, we’ve got a couple days
Of Listening to all those precious freedoms fade away
Watching all your neighbors learn in real-time how they never really had them anyway
Watching as we occupy ourselves
And you can try to occupy yourself,
but eventually you’re gonna have to reckon the embarrassment of seeing that the terrorists were speaking perfect English, and they look just like yourselves
And you could smell a power-trip distinctly American.
You could hear the hate in their voices so well.
You recognized the boots when they pressed into your face, and the sweet, familiar taste of the composite shell
And suddenly, the film decides to pause itself.
Suddenly the animals that wither in your cage would sooner claw themselves.
Suddenly we start to see a fascist is a fascist
and it doesn’t fucking matter what they call themselves.
Suddenly we start to see their colors are irrelevant
Suddenly the film is turning black and white and all the red and blue feels just as far away and long ago as civil rights
& Suddenly it’s Groundhog Day on the Kent State firing line
and you’re a student holding up a picket sign
You’re the dying breed before a generation born with all its senses in the sand unless it’s dinnertime
A generation undereducated in the hopes that their capacity for questioning their station might be minimized
A generation dancing to the same song
Witnessed by a Million eyes
A generation struggling to save itself when all our means to aid ourselves were weaponized
Poverty was branded on our skin, and we were tazed or made to step aside.
Kettled into gutters and the ruling class is laughing as they pass us by
A ruling class of warped perverted sadists so empowered by our CAPITALIST SYSTEM, their humanity’s impossible to recognize.
So fattened off our taxes and our blood and our misfortune that they’ll never die
They’ll be comfy somewhere else
that Bezos terraformed and colonized
when Earth is sunken under waves
of human refuse and we all get left behind, terrified
Our first mistake was standing by and watching human suffering incentivized
The last of our mistakes was probably painted on a sign at Kent State that never made it past the censors eyes
Shouted down to ashes under angry crowds of Semper Fi
When it’s on your block, your only option might be frozen to the spot and truly petrified
Like you heard the first shot at Kent State and it went through your sign
And right into somebody’s side
And we’ll all go down in history as police-assisted suicides
Tell the founding fathers that we sing the songs of Patricide
Chanted out in triplicate
Unanimously ratified
And we’ll all go down in history as police-assisted suicides
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7. |
||||
Blue check better hold your breath
I’ll slap you out your Ray-Bans
Toe to toe we’ll doe-si-do
and dip until you face plant
If you want statistics
I can spit em up like rain man
Now your argument has zero arms and legs
Like Rayman
Now we’re touring 2019 like it was Graceland
I Dropped 50 pounds
and started dressing like a stagehand
Quarantine was born,
and I restored my former waistband
Now I make the trailers
for our future in the wasteland
Back on my bullshit
Back at my heaviest
Here to grab the artifact
and jam it in the edifice
Force it in the orifice,
absorb the sordid medicine
All the good cops are either dead,
or quickly jettisoned
No, I’m not a nihilist,
and no, I’m not a pessimist
I’m just your average realist
With a fetish for the precipice
Bend you over this abyss,
I want to make you sweat a bit,
I’ll drop you once it registers
And know that you’ll remember it
Daughters of the Revolution
Soon may lose their membership
Maybe through a dissolution
Maybe through dismemberment
I won’t be the one to choose,
Or execute the severance,
But Stand in solidarity
with every tool that severs it
Every crimson pool
we made of every fascist fool
who watched us sacrifice our schools
to fund the final crowning jewel
affixed in Lockheed Martin’s Diadem
What’s another 20 dead,
Our leaders lever cried for them.
They’re laughing in the garden,
drunk, and pissing on the hyacinths.
The Royal Jubilee to praise
this fascist Biden monarchy
is imminent
and it would not be possible
without the constant
slaughtering of innocents.
Overseas, and, here at home,
and anywhere we find a shred of innocence.
We won’t stand for Peace,
not in the global, or the “inner” sense
We won’t let a single nation
live outside our prison fence
We’ll provide the bullets
that defaced an honest journalist
and turn around to praise ourselves
for fearlessly upholding the free press
and their important service
But I’ll make a bet that Antony
starts Blinken awfully nervous
when you ask him why Assange
is being jailed without a purpose
For what may be the greatest,
most courageous act of journalism
carried out in earnest
All to be rewarded with a a slo-mo execution
stretching out across a decade
Until they commute his sentence
Half an hour after he goes in the furnace.
Sometimes I think the world
is only turning out of spite,
it’s like we died a long time ago,
and we’re so used to being burned,
that when we saw the light,
we all assumed that it was here to burn us.
And so we fled into the shelter
of a flooded circus
Led to higher ground by all the clowns
who own the only raft
that floats above the sewage
And, yes, there’s plenty room,
but they insist we don’t deserve it.
They insist the system works,
they know it isn’t perfect.
But say we can’t let Great
become the enemy of Good
or all these rolling waves of shit
we call democracy
and bled out every dime for
won’t be worth it.
But, I submit this joke
of an American Experiment
has not been worth a fraction of a damn
since we birthed it
I submit that all our contributions to the planet, when subtracting our destruction,
and the millions we left dead
and labeled ‘Damages’
would leave us with a failing grade of
“Worthless”
My apologies to any Blue Checks
who might be listening,
I’m sure that made you clutch your pearls
and thousand-dollar purses
Did I interrupt your fantasy
of healthcare exclusivity,
replete with fleets of Tesla hearses?
Or your daily round of golf-claps
to pacify our broken nurses?
I know my spoken word
is like the scalpel of a surgeon
Who is working on behalf of the insurgents,
but I’m just here to open up your eyes
So you can see the true reality,
and not your censored, tailored version.
You can get your copy
of my brand new manifesto,
i took all my calls for violence,
made it danceable,
and, Presto,
called it ‘Communism: Taylor’s Version’
Called it
‘Tales Of The Great American
High-Speed Rail Aversion’
Called it ‘How To Put A Bigot Into Power
Then Collectively, And Feebly Coerce Him
Into Acting Like A Decent Person’
This will be the most important vote
you’ll ever cast,
because we have to wrestle power
from the current ruling class,
and hand it over to the other team
of smiling, suited serpents.
This will be the most important vote
you’ll ever cast,
now watch them toss it in the vat,
and see it melt into the surface.
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8. |
Met Gala Airstrike
02:44
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Influencer tik tok
Capitalist pig dog
Immigration flip-flop
Lobbied via rimjob
Met Gala Airstrike,
A-Lister scrimshaw
Paparazzi lips sip the scandal as it drips off
You know, I’d Love to meet our leaders that were tipped off
Back when Covid was a few of us with wicked coughs
And be like:
“Sorry, Mr. Senator, that you don’t speak in terms of human worth, just in kickbacks and dipped stocks”
Then punch that motherfucker like a shift clock
Hurry back home to my stack of straw dolls with their limbs off
Biden’s on the screen, and he’s confusing Xi & Kim-Jong
Talking out his Sim Card,
Like someone plugged him in wrong
But then, we hit the gist, and suddenly, his pitch drops
He whispers right at camera one with his fist balled
His words hang with the subtlety of a lynch mob
He says “Rat your neighbor out, and get a 5-dollar voucher for the CIA gift shop”
Hell, you’ll even get a free stick of boot-flavored lip balm.
Every day, we make enough consent to fill a strip mall
So When I say “eat the rich”
I’m talking, Still raw
Bone-in
limb by greedy limb
with a skill saw
Picture, if you will,
A modern take on ‘Naked Prey’,
starring Bill Maher
Picture misery deeper than a reach in Biden’s pill jar.
You pull a fistful out and down it, honey, here we are.
The future’s full o’ shit, and clear enough to know we’re better veering off, and fleeing far
Somewhere Jeff will never think to look, beyond the fading stars
Beyond the homeless camps they came and swept for the parade of stars
Who showed their faces proudly,
while we covered ours
Met Gala Butcher Block
We Feed the hungry
And we Tax the filthy rich
until they fucking starve
Poke the hornets nest enough,
eventually, it comes apart
Eventually I’ll run my course, and numb my art
I’ll snuff the little embers out and clean my car
Wait it out enough, and then my sample bank will seem bizarre
Just Foreign clips of fuzzy inspirations that I’ve washed away,
or smoked beneath a half a dozen years of char
Until I’ve long forgotten the familiar buzz of pressure in my ears when it’s just me alone with thoughts of drones, Boston dogs, Blackrock homes, and Women wearing Maiden’s garb
The times, When, privately, I wondered if we’d ever shake these chains of ours when every vote for lesser evil yields another toxic barb,
A pox on your democracy,
A swelling in your child’s heart
Before the time to educate ourselves is gone,
and suddenly our trial starts.
Those among you capable of standing, please rise,
wipe the crocodile tears from your landlords eyes before the trial starts.
All rise, and the trial starts.
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9. |
Half Dollar
04:09
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I found a half dollar in a dresser drawer
Spent the time I would have spent
Just staring at the floor
staring down at JFK
Trying to imagine the immoral sort of irony
that makes a nation feign commemoration
of a man that it had murdered by the CIA
Trying to envision us
if we possessed the healthcare
he had talked about in ‘58
I guess the takeaway
is it’s a piece of fucking cake
to celebrate somebody’s bravery
once you’ve assured
they’re safely in the grave
I bet if Pat Tillman were alive today,
that he would say the same
I’m sure we’re in for more
if they let Julian decay
I bet that they would put him on a quarter
I bet that they would name
conference rooms in his honor
at the IMF,
The New York Times,
The FBI,
and Citibank
I guess the takeaway
is it’s a no-risk
softball-pitch
to uplift somebody’s image
once their image is the one thing that remains
And the worst is when
it’s coming from a figurehead
who’s funding every agency
that authored the remains
And working with the agency
that doctored the remains
The agency that obfuscates the facts
and spins a constant storm of shifting blame
I guess the takeaway
is that America
will sing your praises loud as day
to celebrate the fact
you and the threat you posed
have passed away
Shit, They’ll throw you a parade
And business just as usual will live another day
And all of the insurance gods
will bathe in all the praise,
and make donations rain
And all their winged,
wicked little lobbyists
will blow their horns,
and light the flames
The ceremony starts,
and they,
In single column, march,
up to the weathered onyx arch
and sand the marker down
that bears your name
So you no longer are,
and never were,
until your hideous rebirth
within the corporate frame
Until you’re back from the dead,
and then bound for all eternity
in propaganda’s chains
It’s the very ritual
that whittled down the legacy
of Martin Luther King
into a parable on unity
for liberals to claim
And once they learned it worked,
the world would never be the same
And now, it’s getting worse,
I guess they’re dialing in their aim
History’s a straight line,
but so’s a moving train
which is heavily dependent
on our infrastructure grade
We are building back better
in a nation built on slaves,
so you can guess the ultimate direction
that our pathway to the future paves
They don’t want you living,
or they’d offer you a living wage
They don’t want you feeding any homeless,
it’s just best to leave ‘em
freezing in the alleyway
They don’t want you speaking
words of hope unto the hopeless,
or they’ll do you up like JFK
Found a half a dollar in my dresser,
and I spent the rest
Of my whole day depressed
because this constant drop in pressure
means that you can catch the bends
from simply sitting up in bed, awake
It looks like 2022
is really not the year for you
to have your lives improved,
I guess you’ll have to wait.
But, not to fret,
Election season’s just around the bend,
why don’t you go ahead and save the date?
So you can throw yourself
Before the magistrate
And beg to have your family saved?
You don’t know the people
you elect to lead you,
more than what their ad portrays
You can’t tell their offerings
of saccharine and arsenic
from ordinary aspartame
You can’t really comprehend
the kind of greed this country feeds upon
until you’re Jackie O,
wearing close to half a brain
And probably the half
that would have seen us passing M4A
All to keep the pieces in their places
in the never-ending profit game
All to weave a tapestry of ampersands
each allow a claim adjuster room
to just dismiss you with a callous hand
Like
“Fuck you and your meds”
“Fuck you for requesting a procedure
that you need so you can stand”
“Fuck you and your family,
and your poor demands”
Welcome to the land
where we’ll assassinate a man,
and then put him on a half dollar,
stadium,
or stamp,
and proclaim ourselves the greatest country ever master-planned.
Killing off its citizens,
Enriching all its brands
- Jesse Jett -
- 2/4/2022 -
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