Listening to Barry McGuire I don't want to listen to Barry McGuire,
Or maybe I do.
The whole thing seems depressing,
yet it gives me a perverse kind of pleasure,
like an s and m fetish,
only through politics and music.
Maybe I don't really want change,
Maybe those who occupy are no different,
Maybe we need chaos for order,
Or maybe it's all a natural progression,
Of mankind and political triumph,
Or maybe God,
being us,
will punish humanity,
like a masochist endlessly whipping his back,
Creating orgasms from pain,
Or perhaps the truth lies in death,
How many souls have died,
Fighting for truth?
Fighting for justice?
Maybe they know,
Maybe they always knew.
On the eve of my destruction,
I will hold my flower,
that I planted in love and haste,
I will hold the flower up to the sun,
I will say to the daffodil,
To the rose,... |
Empty Machines I watch,
listen,
breathe,
computers.
Every where I go,
there they are.
I see them in the malls,
coveted by my neighbors,
I see them at home,
used to negligence by my sisters,
I see them in the streets,
the towns,
the fairs,
and all along the banks,
where the green river runs,
and the assorted microchips,
laugh at me as I try,
with all my might,
to escape from them,
within my mind.
No use;
No use;
Destroy the empty machines. |