Marketing the fear and desires of a PC generation,
an airbrushed, photoshopped life regeneration.
Passing on the sorrow,
the soul-bleeding reparations
like the born and bred Kazaamunists we are.
Take it back,
send us forth,
an army for your hatred,
a hospice for your love,
a fleet of little humans for your angered hungry gods.
Give us butter, give us oil,
give us flat screened distractions,
give us info, give us terror,
give us bombs, and give us lovers.
I don’t want more and we can’t bear less,
so forget all that and take this test.
I feel this hunger,
in myself, in my world,
and this asphalt stretch beneath me.
Driven forward, driven onward, driven inward.
Take this pill,
vault this wall,
grab this pistol,
hide this soul.
Carpeting and vinyl,
supersized, miniaturized, screwed and bolted in,
double-paned and insulated,
bear it in mind,
bare and open minds,
heartbeats and spirographs, and fluctuating memory.
Rewire, rework, rebuild.
Hard disk's spinning.
Try again, deep-fried sin, dopamine and Ritalin.
Heal your brothers, heal each other, raise your hand,