The bloat of corporate conformity – sickly and seething dirty, unanimous fascist reimagining of the past blasted three decades, made entirely of facades of applauded false economies.
Nothing is made. Fake ideas and fake smiles.
Assholes in pantsuits, catharsis with cryptic crypto-current currencies or shitty vlogs. There are only two paths to money in the eyes of youth – fame or investment. Failed stale bailouts laid out through hay-baled mortgages and investments in housing speculation.
Eat your minimum wage digital bi-monthly wage deposits.
Never own a house or car, pawn stars off grandmother’s inherited jewels and dirty bars going bourgeoisie-gentrified gimmicks just as far. Middle managing to manage insomuch as damage per quarter advantage is vantaged.
You will have ten bosses making ten times more than you doing ten times less work but credited as “idea people” with no clue about the actual ground floor.
So many people touched in the head – out of touch but much of this death by drowning is frowning at your annual performance review, skewing it to the best of your ability to accrue truly nothing of actual importance.
Art is wholly corporate. I keep trying to quit it like I once did cigarettes.
Kids, fiddling fidget spinning hunks of garbage dump metal and the fad is “death by tide pod.” Parents are best friends. So addicted to snapchat they could not tell the cultural relevance of faxes or didactic dissent spent on lax tax reform masking fat cats basking in one percent economies that a decade later have not abated jack-shit.
Say what you mean, don’t blather on in trails of acronyms.
Academia is dead – no progression just regression to the “cutting edge” pieces of thesis work, spurts of PHD student self-aroused gunk on the junk of grant writing donors and paying myself to hang out – loners. Disconnected from a reckoning that being aloof is proof in long-tooth politics of blah blah regressive left specs, wrecked morality, and solidifying of a reprising of political spectrums that punk eschewed forever ago.
I am not a communist. I want to smash the system because it is broken and we need to start again.
Fucking electing orange buffoons in lieu of stewing in our thoughts, high-quality mocked and balked, jocks in congress and parliament. My infinite patience does not extend to crocodile smiles and false catharsis in agonizingly slow “positive right steps.”
The 1980s Punk-Rock Anarchists had it right.
System is beyond saving, ranting and raving about positive change is amazingly naive. How many marches and protests will the office bureaucrats scoff at because they are comfortable and we are not?
I ready my Molotov cocktails and sharpen my pen-is-mightier sword while you read this poem and think it is merely okay, but still do nothing to fix this.
