Idealists gaze upon the blistered, reddening orange,
survey the filthy machine.
Mechanics hired not to fix
but fleck with paint the greasing fingers.
The flower grandchildren scream in anguish, petroleum wine
tight into the rims of philosophy.
Uncorked and indignant at the sleeping, shaven,
corrupted metrosexual fantasies,
whose days lie fuelled by burning trees,
burning throats and disprotected keys.
They run past the wind into the comfort of the green.
Sexuality strips our straitjacketed arms,
smudging binaries and pathways;
spectrums that educate our trackless, clothed minds.
Blacks out the template, another burning green
and smokes love out of a bleeding bathtub.
The avant-garde’s arms are crossed
into a malevolent X, an NC-17,
not so that the people turn away
but so they turn around and forget.
Reality kills the video stars,
and muted is the music that blares amongst the silences.
culture covers our blinded eyes
when Culture should toothpick them open.
Stare upon the world and crack the worded walls
yet here we sit, ignore its drunken cries,
palms on ashes and a broken bubble screen.
For the legal age is censored, and darkness
is the enemy
of those we call our friends.
La vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin.