Revision
The future is bobby socks
and poodle skirts, saddle shoes
and revolution
the sound of broken glass
running through my brain.
What was the question?
My mouth is a badly-filled pothole
of blackened stumps and jagged protrusions.
Weigh the birdshot if you doubt I'm average.
All men are not created equal.
Society must render them so,
like the carcasses of cattle.
Can you hear my words
through this buzzing?
Nothing you’re watching
is true--save the tears
still wet but as forgotten
as the fading steps of the dance.
The Ballerina is broken.
The Emperor dead. Go back
to your original programming.
Original
The future is bobby socks
and poodle skirts, saddle shoes
and revolution,
the sound of broken glass
running through my brain.
What was the question?
I am average, need to be average,
desperately want to be average—
will be made average.
All men are not created equal.
Society must render them so,
like the carcasses of cattle.
Can you hear my words
through this buzzing?
Nothing you’re watching
is true--save the tears
still wet but as forgotten
as the fading steps of the dance.
The Ballerina is broken.
The Emperor dead. Go back
to your original programming.
The future is bobby socks
and poodle skirts, saddle shoes
and revolution
the sound of broken glass
running through my brain.
What was the question?
My mouth is a badly-filled pothole
of blackened stumps and jagged protrusions.
Weigh the birdshot if you doubt I'm average.
All men are not created equal.
Society must render them so,
like the carcasses of cattle.
Can you hear my words
through this buzzing?
Nothing you’re watching
is true--save the tears
still wet but as forgotten
as the fading steps of the dance.
The Ballerina is broken.
The Emperor dead. Go back
to your original programming.
Original
The future is bobby socks
and poodle skirts, saddle shoes
and revolution,
the sound of broken glass
running through my brain.
What was the question?
I am average, need to be average,
desperately want to be average—
will be made average.
All men are not created equal.
Society must render them so,
like the carcasses of cattle.
Can you hear my words
through this buzzing?
Nothing you’re watching
is true--save the tears
still wet but as forgotten
as the fading steps of the dance.
The Ballerina is broken.
The Emperor dead. Go back
to your original programming.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson