As the young eat tomorrow

The young man needed to follow to battle notion
as he observed he would learn to live on some red ocean
Fluid sense of existence building creativity

Deadlines and guilt killing it competitively

He didn´t see himself as the creator, but of normality
The experiential teen still chained to conformity
yet shocked and brazed by infatuation´s weird ingredients
The odd obligation rising up tyrannical and inconvenient

Fathoming senseless the youth in him perplexed
errors fall like night starless and moonless
often darkening the path he needed to see about
Father plays with his own cause to model out

Son looks from his distance into the extent
Unable to comprehend worklife content
Distracted from each arena of tricky competition
Pitching unequal opponents like rigged elections

And god screams down to him from up on high
you haven´t found your cause yet? and sighs
The shrill voice a strong wind confounding him further
The mess all sugared with drugs, hormones and nerves

why can´t we just buy an identity from a vending machine
some badge to pin between our infant and elderly diapers
Some fixed outcome to dull our anxieties so crude and hyper
All the change is forced on us like a disgusting banquet

Routine badge life

 Your identity cages you
each bar a sphere of your hardened beliefs
you wrap your hands around them not to struggle out
To touch, obsessed by which emotions they evoke

The routine script followed along
That dreary method actor taking your lines home
And eating the fate and faith like personality pizza
chained to the little train that runs on those beautiful tracks

Tracks you positioned in circles
The monotony of rounding the track
creating just enough dizziness
To confuse yourself

Into a name
a title
an honor
A coffin

The digital weasel´s lullaby

 The weasel digital desert
arrived infront of your dusty halls
your rugged adventures and race
The contours of your face

The rooms in my mind where some infant tenants are playing
Some accomodated some vacant condominion brain
many whose walls are just vibrating membrains
How do those visitors get any sleep?

All the world it´s toys and tools like wands
all of which to bestow your control on
A baby randomly examining shiny plastic, a grin ensues
The shiny plastic that it eventually transforms into
 that ugly etiquette knives and forks, gossip and queues

The weasel digital desert of the mind of reflection
The dusty halls begging for cognitive connection
access to the memories of great seas and days
A mirror to capture some identity before gray

The physical desires and eyes out on the world are banned
the extroverted servant now a few commands
On an infant´s introverted Croc wearing app
stored there, like a cryogenic nap

 The rooms in our houses
Most empty now
the walls become touch pads
We are now virtually asleep

Sebastion

 Don´t let his head know the torment
That his amusement would go forward
Yet where would he cut illusion from reality
With his wooden spoon

We trick ourselves and fun is in our surprise
When our children lost and confused
find it painful to swallow the lie

Don´t let my pain be my sons pain
Don´t let this complexity whip him
Yet the world is not what it advertises
deception is manufactured son

We decieve ourselves to feel and think
That perhaps things are a few degrees better
We build the fantasy land and hand you toys

Don´t let it blind you son
The walking stick theyll sell you
Is just a fully compatible clever crutch

Go out and hit those planets
As they trade lies

Be the alien
As they organize themselves into herds

Be the emporer
As they elaborately enslave themselves

Reign over the whole poxy image filtered galaxy

Just a piece of fruit

 The rainbow colored overgrown mangoes
Hanging off those trees like babies off tits
So colorful in the balmy air above the swimming pool
sunny waves of light reflecting off the surface
Onto faces and mouths smiling

The Flat wide tropical grass telling me money
The grin from my old dead friend
For this land was his, this franjapani scent over the parks
The abanoned streets being developed for highrise apartments

Those overgrown mangoes my friend
If That isn´t  a gift from god
How does it just keep giving after your suicide
A brother gone, the south of the city less important

Those grunge songs still playing out of those phantom speakers
The kids renewed and our naiivety too
shutting the cage that looks like heaven
The tropical void some of you suffocated
Illusions lke graffiti gobbling up all city walls

Swimming pool focus
Those new shoes and that jewelry
Not a mango
Somewhere dry and hollow from the torrential rain
Somewhere flavor has cost

Abstract path

 The straight path is a lie
even the great man agrees
The violence in lust
The flames of imperfection

The illusions of ideals
The thorns on the rose
Many obstacles and emotions
Shake your identity

Who you must be
who you can be
Your inner motivations 
changing like the scenery on your path

Or timeless like such a sinister portrait

two faced comby

 The VW comby was retro-fitted for parties
Like a simplicity and sophistication paradox meet
The first to enter and nestle in it´s leather seats
Were the future versions of ourselves in their 90s
Completely resigned, faces unchanging yet unwinding

But it was such a loathesome disappointment for us
fresh adults 20s looking toward the back of this minibus
Toward the alien faces of the old seniors like great aunts and uncles
without once recognizing ourselves between their wrinkles

So we all made an attempt to get to the front seat drive crew
The coveted spot where youth related flare could still continue
As we piled in and the driver started to reverse
The car seemed to continue in reverse

Curiosity assaulted the mind as the comby ran
So we tore down the curtain to see the back of the van
Only to see the elderly group had vanishedinto thin air
And the van was being driven from what we thought was the rear

The confusion of priviledge

 The bars themselves pushed into the past by the easterly wind
The clothes and smirks and giggles of excitement
The meaningful tone in frivilous conversation
comparing their fancy realities as the sun beat down

Those stalls were serving franchise brand food
Official smiles inked up and stamped
by the discerning consumer´
whom in this case were the early adults in the fry pan of the millenium

Their window into the outside world had just enough room
For puppet strings and recordings to copy ad verbatum
Discrimination was the recluse and steadily observed from afar
As every manner of adult child showed their vices through their skin

Popular places and well known people could bring you acclaim
Showing the exclusive path that millions couldn´t tread
For they learned to walk too close to the brick and mortar
yet to be stacked and paved extending the shanty

The Burger

 At the home made burger bar
variations of ourselves were put together 
put on the moving shelves that would find mouths and exits
excessive sauce

buns were painted
flavored with bacon
hung to dry and then filled
With tastebuds expectations

Night marinated it all
And rusted the sauce taps
A place where food was not the purpose
Creative composing of bread meat and salad
An attempt at balance, tilting the diets of the world

Therapy gun

 The therapist gun
A bullet that scratches thought and the brain
The therapist takes your blood as an internal organ
connected externally

Pale exhausting tones of blue
pushed through speech to ear burdened and unwilling
Tell me where to put my intention therapist
 my rational organization of emotion

you are a machine gun riddling my mind
Brain matter all over the traumatic story
stained to my jacket as if the jacket were an organ
begin to load up that freud jung cocky gun

A man of many hobbies

 He saw himself a sailor
upon the ship either coming into port or leaving it
fine wares to bring, barter and sell in those crystal streets
The subtle presence of his wife a cloud

On his horizon

He saw himself a bridgebuilder
All cities need them
These clever engineers that insist
And never live their failures down

Yet he could forget his

The glare coming off those crystal streets
showed that all fathers have a narrow alley
That becomes a part of them until they end
Markets and stalls, hidden doors even

Take a look inside a man

He saw himself a mayor
Above the crystal yet infected by it´s trivialities
It´s swimming pool existance
It´s status as a perpetual public holiday

existance requires veracity 
In a maze of abstract visions 

Wholesome validation

 Get that group of kids to clean the kitchen
laziness dripping off the cook pots
One quarter the way through
early adults

Insisting on farewelling adolescence
Yet it sticks like the oily remains
On the iron pan surface
Peer sludge accumulating false assumptions

Not cleanable by the youth
short circuited by trends and affordable stimulation
distracted by gestures and forgettable events
Desperate to cross the bridge knees trembling

Queues and exclusive clubs
Prerequisites and inductions
The electric lounge of social acceptance and evolution
The "have not" generator dangerously hot spinning luscious

The unattainable trophy
The turnstyle that clicks into an obstacle
you observe the warm smiles unreachable
and the sweet glare of recognition and love crushingly close

God down the line

 God hasn´t awoken yet
hidden in the wires and cables
Mother world´s umbilical cord
wrapped up in the complex network
spreading itself inside and outside

God hasn´t plugged in
we are still analogue
guessing and sketching romantically
Lost in clouds we created
to store our own memory

All of our love misdirected 
toward screens 
Passing images
wrapped up in those complex networks
of meaningless emotions

God whistling out there in the galactic rain
Waiting for us to evolve
Pondering our distractions