First of all, connections fail.
I dress for facelessness. Step out
and fall head into the nest.
You kill me with your words.
You kill me with competition and standard.
I am not the hour. I am not time.
I am not history. I am now.
The orchestra hits that same old not.
The one I hate so much.
Now play post rebellion,
sweet admirer, glittering star.
So I walk away through billboard love
and stereo hype, through magic pills
and suicide.
Kissed with tongues like glossy magazines.
So I walk away, there is no one around but
eyes - not even me.
Because I am what I am, what I am against.
I stop and look up where people
peak through holes on pedestals.
This is the long self-righteous shower.
Water so cold as the distance - shave away passion.
I'm wondering whether they are priests or poets?
Words they travel,
but who cares what's behind.
And yes, I tell you it was about war.
All the tales told in the rebelstore.
There are patches and stickers too.
A cabaret starring me and you.
Are we digging our own graves?
Marching on the same old roads.
The code, the uniform, the priest and the poet,
the Zionist, the racist, the bible and the banner.
Like handed down from Sinai.
Post rebellion,
Sweet admirer,
Glittering Star
This post was edited by hATemOnkEy on Jan 25 2010 06:46pm