They were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality’, then die out from their Bohemian fantasy,
To wake up and found themselves drowning the lake of tears so they cry, until the mental asylum illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse, and I’m with you,
Running from crow to clouds, sail from sun drenched shore.
Enumerating the supercilious institutes they had searched and found only disputes, which ironically redeemed the buried ego and made themselves proud…
Freedom, freedom, freedom, they shouted so loud,
To hear the resonance from the narcotics concreted purgatory where’d eliminated all the frivolous hipsters and their trivialities of magazines with brand new threads of brainless thoughts.
The relief brought by intoxication was a hiccup after an imaginary decent meal nice and short,
Yet again they would wound up in the healthy reality where concealed the solid hunger and predicament of sordid deals…
‘To accomplish, attain and achieve, that’s what you will have to give’ is the echo oscillating between the hopeless breath of mind once seditious and the staggering body of morbidity, predicting the inexorable battle lost.
Those conceited are those who lack confidence the most, who once knocked on the door of authority with the last preserved dignity,
Who confronted fusillade everyday…’horrible’, ‘ludicrous’, ‘terribly outrage’ or ‘makes absolutely no sense’ and bared only a fatigued smile,
Who went home burning down their work to the last page with shredding souls,
Who cheers with every tragic event of their life with decreasing patience they did not know.
They were once dreamers, who imagined a birthday celebration they’d never had.
They were once dreamers who talked in connotation with no elucidation and watched the madness bouncing like a rotten apple in a delicate pun net, and grinned with disdainful denial.
They were once dreamers who deluded themselves with the capricious countenance of a lover whose name they could not tell.
They were once dreamers who marched with the insubordination of ‘make art, no money’, until they’re completely out of paints and canvases and brushes turned into knives and took their life.
In the river of blood where floated wrecks of prescribed drugs, i saw the prosperity of medical industry and then i cry:
‘What must I do with thee?
To burn you and you’ll hurt, to bury you and you’ll rot, and to send you away to the sea, the nature will defeat you and make you bloat…
What must I do with thee?
All the mistakes, miseries of memories once tortured you over and over and all turned into nothing, you suffered at each breath until now you’re all dead.
What must I do with thee?’
I followed the flow down in the road, surrounded in this urban smoke, to find myself again soaked.
Slipping down to the ground with cold cold water running by my feet and thought of ‘freedom’ that they always mentioned,
Cuz maybe the idea beyond beauty of all kind is merely an erogenous desire as if the id of nature,
Cuz maybe mankind built up this civilization for a reason, to survive and escape the law of nature to have the time to conceive and create,
Cuz maybe there is a fundamental need of organization to keep the human functioning to endow the capricious existence under the sheer nature,
Cuz even to free my mind requires an individual system…
Cuz…cuz…cuz…there is simply no such a thing as the eternal truth in this ephemeral mortality, but only an insulation of a beautiful state of mind where they could indulge themselves in the perpetual imagination.
Cuz instead of digging deep into encyclopedic knowledge as philosophers, psychologists and scientists then convey them out through exquisite literature,
They just dream their own dreams by floating above the mundane world of scrupulous people who consider themselves to be tenacious.
How I am jealous of those true artists!
So I come to the point to realize that I was never an artist, and i am too cynical to be one.
Yet I’d like to stay in this vulgarity to push the society of artificial computers and hypocritical politics forward,
So they might linger but follow the successively successful suicides of the great of the bygone.
I’ll survive for you to live, cuz on the atlas where i threw the dice; i had strayed too far from my paradise.
