Tuesday, November 05, 2019

Wondering again

I was wondering about the general election, what if they cancelled it? What if they did something else? I wondered if people would complain, perhaps riot or just accept things after some token explanation and media whitewash. It's like sometimes we poo more than we eat, the output is greater than the input. Any creative genius will tell you that, sometimes it's not as difficult as you think to do something or put something out there. But for the mean time we're stuck, change isn't going to come. You can hear it in the words they don't say, in the dullness in their eyes, in the bias of the media. We're all up against it but we are not organised in thought or deeds. We're a cardboard electorate, armchair surfers and pundits who lost the will to take part and lost the appetite to understand. So they'll pour money all over things, PR and shit, they'll poo more than they'll take in and we'll be taken in because anything else is just too difficult.

Wondering Again - Ian Anderson, Jethro Tull.

There's the stillness of death on a deathly unliving scene
And the motorcar magical world has long since ceased to be,
When the eve bitten apple returned to destroy the tree.
Incestuous ancestry's charabanc ride,
Spawning new millions throws the world on its side.
Supporting their farflung illusion, the national curse,
And those with no sandwiches please get off the bus.

The excrement bubbles, the century's slime decays,
And the brainwashing government lackeys would have us say
It's under control and we'll soon be on our way
To a grand year for babies and quiz panel games
Of the hot hungry millions you'll be sure to remain.
The natural resources are dwinding and no one grows old
And those with no homes to go to, please dig yourself holes.

We wandered through quiet lands, felt the first breath of snow,
Searched for the last pigeon, slate gray I've been told.
Stumbled on a daffodil which she crushed in the rush,
Heard it sigh and left it to die.
At once felt remorse and were touched by the loss of our own,
Held its poor broken head in her hands, dropped soft tears in the snow
And it's only the taking that makes you what you are.
Wondering aloud will a son one day be born
To share in our infancy in the child's path we've worn.
In the aging seclusion of this earth that our birth,
Did surprise. We'll open his eyes.

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