When I was a kid, I remember my father
Going to the store with a thick wad of bills
And buying stuff left and right, improvising,
Giving in to the darkest urges of the consumer
Psyche and mythology that somehow convinces
Us all that gratification lies in the release and exchange of money
For shit.
I get the same urge now, my father dead and all,
The old bicycle he bought one day on a whim
Rusting away in the big dumping pile of useless
Memories. I get the urge to show the world
How fucking successful, how suave I am. What a fucking mover
And shaker I have become, lost in the lust
Of the present time. How incredibly crazy is all, congealing
Like a frozen mist that will never thaw. The fear of losing
That which can never be gained, or attained,
The chains that perpetuate the idiotic mirage
We all buy into, believing one thick wad of paper bills
Will provide the necessary happiness we think
Lies around the corner.
We do not own the present, or the past. The only
Kindness we know resides plainly in the crevices
Of our imagined dreams.
I, then, wanna dream my fears away,
Leaving the rest to rot like forgotten fridge foodstuff.
I want to forget the unnecessary societal roles I learned
From my father, and release the wildness locked inside
Like an endangered ape awaiting for the ultimate salvation. Like a jungle
Junkie getting soaked by the unending drizzle of time.
