Son of A Gun in The Wild West [33]

Culture Vultures dining on the carcasses,

of unsuspecting artists who recently departed this, culture that acts as if everyone is targeted,

& surprise, we are, whether bisexual or bipartisan,

or both no vote only the onset of consumer communism, swimming in a mainstream socialist monarchism,

a subconscious stream of consciousness, consumed by a constantly contradicting,

condition of post modern consumerism,

an avalanche of retail therapy & the avant of avant-gardism, doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition, just has to be better packaged & effectively marketed, sold our souls for glitter not gold the ego is an extortionist, don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance, lost every investment like back when The Great Depression hit,

just look at what the mass media market did,

our collective memories & ancient traditions all but forgotten, rewired genes in designer jeans on intoxicants, symbolizing a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s, want to end this madness but don’t know who started it, so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,

as we absorb Virtual Reality & ignore Actual Reality we slip,

into a vivid collectively created occultism of Oculus, Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences...

THH3 142 ∆

Neglecting the blueprint,

everybody’s a studio gangsta these days just ask 50 Cent, ethically bankrupt lazy played daisies too spent to invent, futilely trying to copy Jay-Z’s original Blueprint,

but no body has a DJ Clue what to do or where to begin, nor a Ty Dolla to spare still everyone’s got their two cents, all opinions given without consideration for common sense, no motivation or wisdom taken from the Grand Architect, what good is giving good advice if no one is taking it,

or even taking the time to listen they just dismiss it quick, showing off trophies boldly donating charity checks, acting like champions we bare & beat our chest, wearing fool’s gold & blood diamonds to gain respect, sitting on the throne but we’ve won nothing yet,

honestly it feels like we haven’t even started yet,

still we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance, slaves of an alien race hand on hearts we pledge allegiances, with our unquestioning obedience & faux pas ambiance.

& it’s all almost over for our entire empire,

so every moment better cherish it,

bleached white robes with Chipko sandals,

we hold the reins to Her Majesty’s chariot, whipping the 500 horses to a froth with no compassion at all, our Kings are all Pawns & our Princes are the pettiest,

whipping in a Cadillac crashing into a pole then walking off, driving in the fast lane living the fast life gets you buried quick,

THH3 143 ∆

so I try & pace it & not get too wasted still I feel very sick, seems like it’s time to go but honestly I’m not ready yet, though when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, that’s when the times up & it’s time to depart this ship,

but you can’t rush good art & I’m an articulating artisan, so I keep being an artist until departing on a martian ship, artfully getting away with The Heist of the day no pardonin’, in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet, which of course means no divorce from any or all of this, so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice, love is star crossed & colorblind in it’s brilliance like Edison, & my wondermind shines in wonderland’s luminescence, as I illustrate illustrious illuminations of wonderment,

off every possible edifice in this hedonistic eden’s Matrix trick, eclectically arranged ambiance in this Electric Renaissance, is enough to effectively deliver this rebel’s renegade testament,

I write light before I become just another martyr,

for the Martian’s master plans,

my words are honest sonnets,

on tablets of mono-cultured monograms, mono-glyphs that shine like a lighthouse beacon,

on the top of the Tower of Babel atop a cavernous monolith...

This is all honest in all honestness. Here at the docks,

THH3 144 ∆

with assorted Goddesses & narcissistic walruses,

all the way up going down under,

not trying to be negative but the only thing I’m positive of is, Culture Vultures continue dining on the carcasses,

of unsuspecting artists who recently departed this, culture that acts as if everyone is targeted,

& surprise, we are, whether bisexual or bipartisan,

so stay up, keep up & keep open your eyelids,

because The Hunger Games have just started kid. This is all honest in all honestness honestly kid.

& I’m open to discuss almost everything,

except religion & of course politics,

so if you’re having an issue then tell me what the problem is, & maybe we can solve it quick,

& just admit if you’re involved in conflict,

& maybe we can resolve it quick,

just please don’t blame the Dalai Lama,

or Barack Obama’s broken promises,

see we all have soiled wings,

just like these vultures that pick at our carcasses,

as we dine on Soylent Green,

served hot from the melting pot of concubine colleges, with Charlton Heston & a Smith & Wesson concealed, just in case drama pops off & they want to start some sh!t, can’t be too careful especially these days see,

THH3 145 ∆

wrong right black white day night everything has it’s opposites, so even the kindest animals,

can turn into carnivorous cannibals when all that’s left,

is blown kisses well wishes dirty dishes,

corrupt princes & spiritual paralysis,

this is the age of the dawning of Aquarius,

& the end of our passing genesis...

ButwhatdoIknowI’mjustaSonofaGun,

on the run writing this mystic futuristic hit-list, dressed to the nines with a bottle of moonshine,

a bunch of empty cartridges & some fellow Philosophists, in the Wild West with Clint Eastwood & Billy The Kid, clean as a whistle mixin’ addictions with additives, inventing new recipes with Dirty Harry’s pharmacist,

as The Good Bad & The Ugly along with other accomplices, takes shots off dancing in acid rain eating on magic cactuses, howling at the full moon with peyote coyotes it’s ridiculous, laughing phantasms absent minded off the absinthe mix...

Alive,

right here,

left for dead,

insane & out of practice with,

no clean water in the canteen to drink,

& circling are the Culture Vultures just above our heads,

thisTeenageWastelandhasnopurposewith,

THH3 146 ∆

riff raft rats that can’t act & jack rabbits that lack genitals, religious radicals in the crosshairs of deserted desert tortoises, tumbleweeds & inbreeds, snake oil salesmen on pedestals,

you see these badlands are so bad that’s it’s painfully obvious, they can make even the most stout professional professionals, fill with doubt, seem, & act like just silly little naive novices, can get a massage out but no happy endings in these vortexes, there’s nothing left to see here in this mirage at all, except the bloody reds of my rusty gun as it tarnishes...

My visions getting blurry body’s stopped,

but my mind’s still hurried exactly what anxious exhaustion is, & I’d escape if I knew a way out but instead I stay & lay, because honestly I’m not sure if I have any other options left...

See I knew I would go,

I told you before everyone is targeted, so soon it seems,

I’ll just be another one of the unsuspecting artisans,

the Culture Vultures overhead dine on when feeling peckishish, & in their ravenousness I’ll be torn apart in bits, terminated,

no Terminator, but you can bet, like Arnold said,

“I’ll be back.”,

as if I just started this...

Δ LaLux Δ

• music by Brock Chavez