Son of A Gun

Vultures dining on carcasses,
cultures of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and they are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
or both no vote only the onset of mainstream monarchism,
a subconscious stream of consciousness and orgy oceans,
consumed by a constant condition of consumerism,
an avalanche of retail therapy and the avant of avant-gardism,
doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition,
just has to be better packaged and better marketed,
we don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance,
just look what what the market did,
our collective memories and ancient traditions all forgotten,
designer jeans symbolize a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s,
I want to finish this but I don’t know who to blame or who started it,
so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,
as we absorb VR and ignore Reality an occultism of Oculus,
Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences…

Neglect the blueprint everybody’s a studio gangsta these days ask 50 Cent,
lazy gay daisies try to copy Jay-Z’s blueprint,
no body has a clue or a dollar to spare but everyone’s got two cents,
so pardon me if I can’t see the difference or the significance in their indifference,
all opinions given but no wisdom from the Grand Architect,
what good is good advice if we don’t take the time and just dismiss it quick,
showing off trophies and donating charity checks,
acting like champions we bare and beat our chest,
just a bunch of prosthetic prostitute pussies and dumbfcks with diseased d!cks,
wearing fool’s gold and blood diamonds but we’ve won nothing yet,
honestly it feels like we haven’t even started yet,
still though we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance,
slaves of an alien race we pledge allegiance with our obedience…

And it’s all almost over so every moment better cherish it,
white robes Chipko flip flops we hold the reins to America’s chariot,
whipping the 500 horses faster in the fast lane will get you buried quick,
so I try and pace it and not get too wasted still I feel very sick,
when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, is when it’s time to depart this ship,
but you can’t rush good art and I’m an articulating artist for the artisans,
in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet,

which means of course no divorce for any or all of this,
so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice,
love is colorblind and my wonder mind is in wonderland’s luminescence,
as I illustrate illustrious illuminations of every edifice in this hedonistic eden like Edison,
with an ample amount of ambiance this is this rebels renegade Renaissance,
so I write light before I become another martyr for the Martians master plans,
my words are honest sonnets on tablets of mono-cultured monograms,
mono-glyphs that shine like a beacon on the Tower of Babel atop a cavernous monolith…

This is all honest kid.

I’m open to discuss everything except religion and of course politics,
so if you’re having issues then tell me what the problem is,
and please don’t blame the Dalai Lama or Obama’s broken promises,
see we have soiled wings just like these vultures that pick at our carcasses,
as we dine on Soylent Green served hot from the meting pot of concubine colleges,
wrong right black white day night see everything has it’s opposites,
so even the kindest animals will turn into carnivorous cannibals when all that’s left,
is blown kisses well wishes dirty dishes corrupt princes and spiritual paralysis,
this is the age of the dawning of Aquarius and the end of our current genesis…

But what do I know I’m just a Son of a Gun on the run writing this mystic futuristic hit-list,
dressed to the nines with a bottle of moonshine and a bunch of empty cartridges,
in the Wild West with Clint Eastwood clean as a whistle with Dirty Harry’s pharmacist,
The Good Bad & The Ugly drink in acid rain and eat magic cactuses…

Howling at the moon with peyote coyotes absent minded off the absinth mix…

Alive right here left for dead insane and out of practice with,
no clean water in the canteen and circling are the vultures just above us,
this teenage wasteland has no purpose with,
riff raft rats religious rabbits in the crosshairs and deserted desert tortoises,
these badlands make the most professional professionals seem like novices,
nothing more to see in this mirage except my rusty gun as it tarnishes…

See I knew I would go I told you before everyone is targeted,
so soon it seems I’ll be just another rotting carcass that,
the vultures overhead dine on as their dinner feeling peckishish,
terminated no terminator but like Arnold said, “I’ll be back.”, like I just started this…

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