Storytelling
Lately I’ve been in to wishing my intuition was better
Maybe it is, but I don’t listen or whatever..
Instead a logical thought’s replaced by emotion
Deep reflection in the open..
Trust the process is clever.
The Schizophrenic and Mystic frequent the same Ocean..
One drowns and one swims.
Ones poison’s anothers potion.
Throughout life’s lessons I’ve been tryna keep the tokens,
But at times they get lost in the commotion…
I try to clear my mind before I leave for my walk. The walk doesn’t clear it either.
I’m wearing a black shirt and the heat beats down on me insufferably, this must be what it’s like?
So I take it off. My white skin will pay it’s retribution to the sun later.
My black shirt was protecting my body from flies that begin to become a problem in the spring.
So I put it back on, thank god I’m allowed to choose whether to wear it or not.
That’s one of our greatest shames.
My black shirt doesn’t protect me from cynicism.
My black shirt doesn’t protect me from tribalistic generalisations.
My black shirt doesn’t stop harmful messages from creating harmful messages that beat down on my skin.
I’m racist because I’m white and I suppose it’s right for me to burn for it later.
Lucky I’m a thinker & not a stinker & literalism isn’t in my blood.
We all know where the problem stems from, how do we stop society from using that path?
It doesn’t stop the kookaburra taking the piss.
Is a concern, that generalisations are harmful really that awful?
Is the white man who was raped as a child, or a teen, or beaten or abused mentally and physically really not a victim?
Where is his space to be able to feel and talk?
Why do you say white men can’t be victims?
What about him?
It just makes it harder for white boys to speak out against misogyny.
Do we really want to fight this battle alone?
I can’t be responsible for the entirety of my gender or the entirety of my ethnicity and I don’t want to be and neither should you.
I can’t be responsible for the upbringings of monsters and I don’t want to be and I don’t want women to be either and it is awful that women are still bearing this heavy seemingly unyielding weight of this ongoing tragedy that is inherent in our culture.
I’m racist because I’m white and I suppose it’s right for me to burn for it later.
Look at your face.
We have never been more equal.
With this blue blood pumping through our veins. Can you feel it?
And we wear velvet slippers as we beat a path on the forest floor.
We are a tangible force and there is no real reason why anyone is bigger or better anymore.
Except maybe height or strength?
But does that matter anymore?
Let’s talk about earning capacity?
But does that matter anymore?
UBI
We all share the same blood, and with each newborn we will share it even further.
We are decendants of gods and we have the hearts of the like.
When we bled our life force on to the stone steps up to the temple shrouded with mystery and mist we were varnishing the path for the future.
We have no need to spill anymore because we share the same.
Tribality is no longer the trivial taboo little piece of work that separates us.
Violence is not necessary when we are, one of each other.
The big jobs for the guys with big gobs.
Up there in their ivory towers with glass ceilings.
They glare up at the gods, envious.
Green with envy and greed.
Walking around with the tips of their flaccid penises hanging out of their flies.
Ready to fuck the world.
And there are flies everywhere! indicating the cesspit they reside in.
Big Jobs for the guys with big gobs.
Inches of acceptance.
The depth of it knows feet.
It’s no feat to trample on the feelings
Of the ones that want to know their way.
So there they are!
My cards fall gracelessly on the table.
To be read by all.
I’m not worried, I’m just well fed.
If I was worried, I’d be crying or dead.
My eyes betray my secrets.
That I never had.
Or that I wish I believe I didn’t.
What’s the difference? Tell me quickly.
Believing you don’t have any secrets or…
knowing you don’t have any secrets.
But cards are more boring
and bloodsport’s exciting!
This heart has been open
Like an operating table with spectators like a sport.
Openness is the best policy for a boxer who can move.
But the ones who can’t dodge,
They tend to block.
The world is at my fingertips and they bleed frustration as I tap to the tap tap tap of the times.
I realise that opportunities are missed as I stare and stare stare stare into the void of too much information.
I move clumsily through this sphere that is saturated and I have no chance of being seen, I mean really seen. And life trickles on as the World around me shrinks and I stay the same, blowing into the wind nothingness because it doesn’t really matter anymore.
Hopelessness as you read out lists of useless knowledge that make you knowledgeable for no reason because Google has the answers anyway and it’s okay because who’s going to complain about the wealth wealth wealth of data and facts and acquaintances,
Imaginary or not, that you can personally mine out of something that weighs as much as a strawberry, bury me, under the weight of this new emancipatory world that weighs as much as a strawberry.
