We fell for a washed-out black hat and a white runt rabbit. How did they spin us from citizens of society to slurping consumers? One by one our souls sold out like falling Dominos. Mmm, I hear your bellies rumble, but this is no salami on sloppy cheese, my friend. All the Jekyll and hiding, bending and soldiering into tiny lifestyle brands, with no chance of leaving a four-walled single person’s prison bed. Sucking stomachs and tongues into a place where it’s all stiff, it’s important to look your best whilst staying on script.
There’s no way out. You’re no threat.
Haggling freedom on psychedelics. Sleepwalking through Disney bubble dreams: rockstars in military regalia.…finding yourself in Southeast Asia. The University of ka-ching…Croydon to catwalk…sex worker to yoga studio…mop to hip-hop hoe…prison to children’s T.V presenter. Come closer, let me look into your cloudy filmed eyes, tell me: what were your dreams?
In the land of make believe we’re all free to let our imaginations run like wildflowers.
Look! Over there’s a failed-at-life university professor keeping you in the slow lane whilst having you believe you’re winning a race to the top. It’s not their fault they still feel it themselves; they’re just taking a year out. Watch out for the Pawn Fleas conditioned to keep you anaesthetised on your ‘infinite potential’, whilst selling your birthright from underneath your root chakra.
Despite all the toil, why’s your lifestyle getting poorer and its advertisement getting richer?
What do you do when you wake up from a long dream? Disoriented and displaced with things not quite as they seem. You’re angry, and with sleep-crust eyes react while still only half awake. Slumbering; dispossessed of the dreams churned out by the fantasy producers. Dislocated from your fellows, each suffering a unique version of psychological and spiritual disorientation. Yawning, scanning, reaching for nourishment: creme brûlée, sucking pig, hash browns, an assortment of fried breasts. Perhaps a teat of alcoholic beverage?
In the post-truth era, it’s no longer about punking against being “good orderly citizens”— the world is rudderless and such movements make fashion trends.
There’s low-level anxiety about connecting to anything that breathes, better to stay with the feeds and scrolls of yesteryears consciousness.
Say hello to the wolves dressed up as wolves, unconscious of their inner sheep, promising a new dream of better sleep.
“Max Weber, a nationalist observing the advance of an impersonal bureaucracy in his industrialising nation, reached his despairing diagnosis of the modern world as an “iron cage”, from which only a charismatic leader offers escape”.
Take five: bring out the polystyrene frankfurter hero.
In desperation the encumbered invest their forgotten faiths in a StrongMan; a person to clear up the party when the Roofies mellow out. Promising prosperity, stability, and equality that the elites before had failed to administer properly.
Donnie, Theresa, Narendra mouthing lullabies to send you back to sleep. Reading out loud tales of Mexicans, Muslims, Hindus, undocumented workers, the media, the anti-Americans, the “pretty bad dudes on the other side”. Straight outta D.T.’s.
“I think we have the all-time record in the history of Time magazine. Like, if Tom Brady is on the cover, it’s one time, because he won the Super Bowl or something, right? I’ve been on it for 15 times this year. I don’t think that’s a record, Mike, that can ever be broken. Do you agree with that? What do you think?” Donnie trumped.
Narratives are believed not because they’re true, or even sound true, but because they’re emotionally appealing. He-Man’s back with the Masters of the Universe: toiling, adorning spoils, squirting seed at botox robot princesses. C’mon you remember the golden era? When men were gods, you got your shoes shined, kissed your wife at the sink and sailed off to make Jazz.
Every mythical hero needs a villain, cue the cartoon Jihadist, the token terrorist; wheel out that welfare criminal. Now, our fictional tale is in place, because every Superman needs someone to zap.
Just remember that there are infinite more American crimes against its own people than any Islamic terrorist can shake a suicide bomb at.
“Oh, dear California my darling, my love, my only hope, you didn’t tell me until it was too late that you were founded on genocide. I just wanted to let you know that I still want you. Tell me you still want me too, please? Next time I promise to be harder”.
Wake up with eyes wide open. Your mind is not your own, it’s harvested by something inorganic. You’re pregnant with illusion and about to fall for another dirty hand. Oh sleeping beauty, dogs get treated better, at least they know there’s a lead around their neck. Yours is invisible, it’s being hooked into your amygdala, it’s been this way since birth and’s still there at Happy Hour.
-That’s all folks. Goodnight-