Technological Traps

I too used to believe 
in advancements and progression
now a Luddite leaning
toward simplicity
For rebellion's no longer in style
all fashionably clone
in appearance, opinion, even art
as many artists no longer express
but recreate fads
for monetary gain

Certain aspects of this are cyclical
as historical records show
but the digital dark age 
promotes gluttony and 
overfeeding the self, the ego

...and the once helping hands 
open to ideas
are but closed fists gripping shit
unwilling to share even that

Live and Don’t Try

Assimilation impossible
gave up many years ago
Never managed to acquire
that skill in all these years
Now accustomed
I cherish my role as an outcast
It's not a reprisal
I've held this position
from the day I was born
into this incarnation
There was no blending
though I do enjoy blended whiskies
on occasion and
I've no chameleon or
shape shifting abilities
I find it better to stand out
like a sore thumb
than always pointing
in the wrong direction

So I wave goodbye to trying

Word. Spirit. Power

Some assume I write
from a dark place or
find my words bear the sting
of negativity, a tinge
of the dark side.
But only in regards
to the affairs of men
does my positive outlook
come into question.
For when I bask
in the rays of the Sun
countless hours will disintegrate
like those unnerving wasted thoughts
upon the follies of man
that fade into nothingness
as if they'd never existed

The Funeral

Kensal Green. Oblivion - Copy

Attended a funeral 
for brain cells again
Seems an extended family
I bury them every weekend
Sometimes during the week
I am their killer, their priest
and undertaker
Sometimes on Mondays
I have to guide those that remain
as they appear to be wandering
within a dense fog
Seems the drink I consume
to forget
is like a pandemic to them
and I can vanquish
countless hordes of them
like some angry cerebral deity
I know that day will come
when they all will succumb
to oblivion, that grand day
I leave this phony world behind
and bury the last one
in a great fermented flood

Casualties in the Night

Someone fired off ten rounds

On a street behind my apartment

Echoing up into the open window

As I lay there Friday night

A brief moment of silence ensues

Before the faint muffled cry

Of a woman mourning

On the blood-stained asphalt

Combat shock of untold urban war

Pitting poor versus poor

While the affluent criminals

Work behind a closed door