I want to live a long
Long long healthy life
But if I die before the Dawn
I tell you with no strife
Do not come to my funeral
I tell you don’t you dare
If you held no space for me I truly know you did not care
All the times you were too busy
Making other plans
No offer to sit beside me
Or hold out a loving hand
If distance made you complacent
Or drama made you scared
I don’t want you at my funeral
It’s too late to be repaired
If you can’t remember
the last time we had a walk
Or some coffee
Then your love was naught but talk
Please don’t come to my funeral
Shedding crocodile tears
No stories of the good days
Or memories of the years
You made your choice in choosing
To neglect this precious heart
And my sacred funeral will not
create a healthy start
Minimum requirement for life pinched off. Up the mountain blindly climbing.
Receiving bread crumbs in thankless blood, sweat and tears. Minimum wage slapped the hand that feeds fast food bellies to vote for more struggle in martyred justification.
Holding your bladder in frozen smile lined up for the next task. Holy glory in overtime saving complaints to look good to the almighty. Dragging hollow bones to the time clock grumbling un-digested cornflakes in the gut.
Minimum expectation weaved and mined in dungeons our grandfather’s built. Speeding up the hamster wheel to trick reality into smelling plastic pansies, walls closing in, hung with color pictures of conversational oasis.
The gall I shame you to insist your feet soak in the tub to break blisters on the floor. Retro fit the golden coffin nobly entitled to work ethic blue collar pride.
Hyenas wander the ledges keeping out spiders gated throughout cookie cutter houses. Minimum effort in consequence of a bad attitude sourced from intuition locked in a closet. Small business taxing mummies to hold up its dream spiking the punch in drowsy baby cries, shining the laser light towards the fancy key to take charge of the herd.
Dissolving hope to soul death lost in the kinetic bubbling up of once upon a time. Fuzzy voices praising the potential of all you can be. Tasting the fire of sweet satisfaction doused in briny swampland catching fish through the tips of ragged fingertips.
Ripping out the core of self-deprecating convenience making master rich, patting obedience on the back. Done when the floor invites us to rest our head that tumbled the body off the bed barely capable to press the palms together; forming an interception that shifts another day gone by in a new dimension.
Inviting mass productivity to shake the stage and force a void in business as usual. Picket fence fallen on yellow grass blown to the wind with parched earth settled delicately on the fine leather seats in the weekend convertible Un-garaged for the summer.
Indentured servitude building your crystal castle at two shakes of a lambs tail and the promise of cocktails at the end of the day. Pencil skirt and Windsor knot parading powerhouse wisdom locked in uniformity to convince the pocketbook that the ladder will appear in a smoke of praise gathered in exhaust fumes.
No fight left to go up against a lineage of capital industry embedded in nature and driven by the invisible ghost possessed by us all; Shedding layers of self-esteem, broken up by ambition to trophy attractions and love not of character but of status and steadiness.
A club of masters that haze a generation on the backs of peasants and peacemakers with false compassion to the plight of the weak, lazy and loyal donkeys that tread through the canyon trails wishing for nothing less than unclaimed significance.
Loyal soldiers content to wear the badge that blood made sacred and and suits made legal. Weary on my brother pulling his weight to hold the family together rocking the baby to sleep. Wonder more dear Mother watching children play in the field of buttercups.
Resting to dig deeper with the soul seekers blessing the wanderers escaping in patience, giving new earth in simple satisfaction to us all.
A Paradise Lost
Upon its victims and set behind a backdrop of revolution charmed in the book of History; Maybe to Repeat and comfortable to Not.
A year has passed so slow yet so quick. Memories of chaos, once so clear, now form as blotted scar tissue on the brain.
The day of the attack still pristine and the words uttered by my confused voice box continues to echo.
The silent attack in the cold basement with my head on the concrete floor and my dad’s large body on top of mine. It came out of nowhere, it seams yet his gorilla glaring anger had always frightened me as a child.
A loyal troupe of defenders and deniers makes my confession left in a vacuum along with other violations that I suffered along the way as a self esteem magnet of mayhem which finally made sense that day laying on the ground.
Time passes and the story gets old to the few empathetic folks that dare to share in the shock and pain. Those humans must get on with the reality of future obligations, no loss can be expected to keep in the forefront forever.
Holidays and birthdays are meant for reflection and tucked away at all other times. Hoping that the heart of his conscience burns forever in remorse that can be felt in a dimension beyond dark justification.
Aging us out marking every move
Thinking on steroids to get the buzz word of the moment
Left behind when nuance has no patience and QueenBee blinds the staff under an umbrella of executive function; surrounded in classrooms full of chaos.
Glass Castle keeping all feedback out and gossip contained on her tin halo
Data Age mocking translations in mandarin exchange students playing each other against playgrounds; and pipers in the Forrest.
Helvetica bold twisting spreadsheets around tight necks stuck out to be seen and cut off when illness or truth cracks her pie chart.
Important self swirling dust balls in the back office, regal cabinets lined with useful wasted Data.