Fuck you, the dreamer screams
through the unspoken words that gleefully choke him,
with no revolutions to lend strength to
and no oppressors foolish enough to face him
The rotting trees do not slake his lust
And he knows only disgust of the glorious words sung by
the bright eyed kids, dreaming of fucking
as they float over the boulevards, mistaken for clouds
by the tired men and tired women who yet have not
learnt to live in dreamless wakefulness
and call rain, the lovely excretions that spill from the holes
of those that sit upon their place on the iron transmission towers
watching for sport, the young men and the young women
rippling the moonlight with their trembling
in cold grasp of the greed of the horny and the hungry
who reek of cigarettes and cynicism
And croon to them of the addiction's tune
burning marks upon their flesh, singing the tears
of the innocent as they are taken slowly
too by the raping emperors upon snapped spines
And here we lie
calmed by a bit less oxygen, a bit less life
watching the war,
of the titans in the sky, drowning out the weeping ants
with songs of love and victory and oblivion
in an endless blind peace that sways over the precipice
