Stepping backwards into our future,
blowing into the bag of our achievements.
Fabric stretching reality; ready to burst
Indianapolis track of progression.
Conscience, hard wired from the system
and morality, a discarded well worn tyre.
Digging mines to bury nature,
while we sing a laments lie.
Wailing that our television dreams
no longer satisfy.
Rosacea landscapes “proudly” proclaim
testaments to our “care.”
While we machinate on peaceful accords.
(A bloody blade already drawn.)
Subfusc faces, in rainbow towns,
knock fairytales to the ground,
all wrapped in debts boa embrace
we wear our plastic crowns.
Hero’s come, hero’s go,
like ice cream around children.
Old warriors barricade park bench castles,
sipping 100% proof amnesia.
A generation weaned on high fibre ignorance,
apathetically observing Pandora’s box.
Glibly strutting towards suicidal genocide
beneath peroxide standards of progress.
Do you see the white flag of innocence?
Blowing in the ether of bull-sh1t.
Do you see the hand of hope?
Dead flesh from the severed arm.
Do you see the words of faith?
That fall so easily from blasphemers lips,
and what of love; a four letter word spelled f-u-c-k.
An enlightened people? We shield our eyes,
bounce from walls of our tunnel vision.
Forever throwing problems at the framework,
expecting it to hold.
The faster we run, the slower we move,
sowing dreams on barren ground.
Death; we’re breast-fed on its demands.
Can’t you hear the world screaming,
or is fairground music to loud?
we rush to oblivion.
Copyright © Colin Marschall