Prep Dreams


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When I awake to the pawnbroker that you are
I will not criticize you for being a scavenger
Cheapskate, penny pincher, for
I will remember poverty, like sleep

I’ve placed it against my lips and
Cried its tears against my stained pillow-cases
I know the feel of a bed that turns
From hard to soft, until it is no longer a bed

I know loneliness like the back of my hand
Through broken fingernails and chipped dreams
And the lucid reminder of how class is destiny
And birth-lottery is the current state of things

And the black-eyed bruise of opportunity
When I awake to the people climber that you are
I will not criticize you for being a shark

For people hurry in their sleep to dream faster
Lay me down then and I’ll close my eyes
And I’ll pretend too that capitalism is real

That consuming and owning is important
Even if I know you are a wanna-be, I’ll play along
For tomorrow’s promises might find you

Hoarding wisdom and bottling simplicity
For the revelation that even skittish dreamers
Make mistakes and even monkeys wake.

The Future Happened while you were Working 


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The Future Happened while you were Working

Stop all the clocks, the future is now
Silence the sceptics, global warming is real
Species are dying, oceans are wanting
I thought love in a human form

Would last forever, maybe not?
Stop all the clocks, democracy is broken
Silence the masses, your vote means nothing any more
The myth of your freedom

Was conscripted a long time ago
Before you were born, stop all the clocks
You’ve been deceived, false advertising all around
The news is distraction, the elite are hoarding

While the poor grow poorer every day
Stop all the clocks, the stars are not wanted now
Put every state back into the Dream, it’s a heist
Of the takers on the taken, it’s a heist

On the slaves for the masters
Stop all the clocks, no one cares about revolution
We have been conditioned to be good consumers
Bring out the coffins, for a mourning generation

It’s going to be genocide, barking dogs, no juicy bones
Only hollow patriotism, white-washed pockets.

S l a v e r y to a Fake Future Reality #amwriting #revolution #policestate #matrix


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S l a v e r y to a Fake Future Reality

What of the study of realism
In a world becoming simulative
How can we tempt the children
With reality, when they are lost
In augmented virtuality?

An angel’s lips to kiss, we think,
But not a girl by their side
No flower-bells to haunt

Only designer babies I am afraid
Who are the masters of machines
More intelligent than them
What of the future, when
Revolution will be improbable, impossible

For the elite will be the state
And democracy will all-trodden blink
For men who as youth know they

Will never own a job or be possessed
By the kind of value their grandparents
Took for granted, is this real then?
This economy where a few profit
For the sacrifice of the many

Where every nation is in debt
And every house is over-priced
What of the study of realism

It has become a lost art
And loveliest of art and poetry
Goes unseen, unheard and unread.

Wrinkles on our dreams


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Wrinkles on our dreams

I woke with marble in my hands
What does it mean?
I am descendent of centuries
Not independent, not autonomous

I am a falling into dreams
Of generations and pupils of elders
It would be very difficult
To think of myself as separate

I inherit euro-centric bias
And I take part unwittingly in patriarchy
I live in an economic simulation
What does this mean?

It means reality is not culture
Social conditions is only a layer
Of existence, my hands disappear
In my dreams, for I know my ancestors

Committed murder, waged false wars
So a few could profit
And the many would remain slaves
Feudalism never died, it only

Masked itself in a homogenous
Globalization of pretend liberties
I wake up with dreams of my own
That I’ve likely been programmed for

My desires are the software
And I am the obedient application
I labour, I do what I am told
How can I innovate in a world

In a world where strangers
Are competitors and scarcity
Is a growing concern of failing economies
I haven’t seen myself in the mirror
Where has my soul gone to visit?