Saturday, June 27, 2009

Fuck You Modern Days

We've been hanging in the poets room
that languid place with the stale air
and the stuffy atmosphere of trying-too-hard

Our plaid has grown threadbare, our calluses boring
the coffee is old, the generally accepted confusion
isn't confusing anymore,
because we've all figured out the pattern
where there wasn't supposed to be one

And we're trying hard not to see it,
but our anti-uniforms aren't so anti
and the young ones look just like us
and we seem to be mocking ourselves in them more and more

What's old is new is old before it's new again
Maybe we should go naked

It seems time for a shift but to those who know,
the change in scenery is just an illusion
because the patterns repeat, ad naseum
ad nauseum
ad nauseum
ad nauseum
ad nauseum

We need the atom bomb.

I said that before.

No comments:

Post a Comment