I find myself shredding the fabricated cocoon I was never enclosed with in. This is the strand of my reality constructed purposefully by every sickening element society can offer. From prostitution to status, I’m enslaved to the same hopeless insanity of romanticizing about a fictitious tragedy; by reviewing death, and reviling the possessions I would miss, again it’s all comprised of society’s vile concepts, constraints…

I’m watching Franklin fly a kite in a fantastic thunderstorm, while Nixon is tied to its tail and rigged to a machine of social acceptance. A technocratic realm where the government’s belligerent means of recreating good and evil are enforced upon us. Drool slowly runs down my chin, for his death was only a socio-political one… A contract signed in blood, forgiving Satan’s servants with kisses and contributions furthering the futile effort of change through political participation. We’ll never understand why we subject ourselves to the rule of the rich; debutants cheering us to our passive death. Enlist, vote, sit and watch their capital grow, and my cocoon glows from the acidic toxic waste once a human’s blood. I see the face of God upon these compromising walls that swell then retreat. Each thread of my reality shaped like a noose; just finish this, but I fear my judgment, for the shepherd never leaves his sheep lest the wolves and lions eat.

I watch them move through the tall lifeless stalks of human husks, but more importantly I hear them snicker and lick their lips when I loosen my grip. For it is not the leash I clasp in my struggling sweaty grasp, but reality. The blonde hair of the most sinister temptress, ambiguity, continues growing longer. I form quick conclusions, because thinking too slowly, allows for a new structure to be set with no witnesses to object in contempt. My world is full of their successes, and the bodies they have left behind along their walk to immortality become skeletons. I’ll surely too hide in my closet of passivity, forever reminding me how far they’ve conjured my future for me, and I cry fatherless because Jesus saves, and people would rather live properly than kill or die for what salvation truly is – The death of empty internalizations that never rationally materialize. Instead, these internalizations are reserved for the blood splattered suicide letter left by yet another potential prophet, a scholar of entropy; well read in the ways of their heresy. I’ve tried to tag names to “they” but all I see is society, and surely there could be no better manifestation because I have forgotten it forgetting me, creating me, and sadly reinventing me for the common place lifestyle of perpetual acceptance while death reaches for me.

How can we participate outside the grasp of our curators, dictators killing millions while others forget the issues raised by the brash actions of neo revolutionary factions? They would lead you to believe that the answer lies in taking part in there utopian like scheme of continuing the hierarchy by voting. Electing the next firing squad for the advancement of a culture we’ve stolen, this must be it, right? So I begin to sin with in a new vehicle created of flesh that too will melt away during the apocalypse of realization. When the cover is pulled from our eyes, and we see the puppets performing tricks for the hungry souls who buy into everything they’re told. Filling their quota of death, disease, and military carnage to merely satisfy the taste of their heinous puppeteers tongue. All this while America, the largest participatory coliseum screams in triumph, and we define our controllers by defining ourselves through the most tortuous of all realities, this society…

The façades encased behind grinning faces, as blood is spilled in the name of currency exchange. The subjugated shadows can still be heard gagging above the new gallows of popular culture. I repeat we have no culture, because we as the ancestors of burden choose to forget the tyranny, and replace them with images of democracy. “Democracy lives in the heart of Satan.” Beating rhythmically to the sound of gun-fired salutes for fallen soldiers, who march to the phonic waves of a conglomerate drummer. The capsule is now merely opening, and I spring forth listening for signs of life, moments of ecstasy, “ no, no I never knew that…” I’m shaking in the lonely foreboding cold of political solitude, or maybe it’s only an egocentric epiphany.
”I think therefore I won’t.” The crowds chant as they pass along nameless computerized heathens hungry for another spoonful of sweetened control. “ Gladly, I’ll place your engineered collar around my neck, because I am merely a speck swept up in your hurricane like gusts of conformity. Unity? Do not bother me with such idealistic hypocrisies!”

I retreat, running tail tucked for home. I’m now scared and can no longer use my integrity. Why did I bother, and who did I think I was? I gestate, and begin to regurgitate the same information I once so strongly opposed; all the while swearing they have no control. Now, truly encased I lick my wounds in the womb of internalization, recreating every memory to fit this burgeoning fantasy. Where people believe independently in themselves, instead of being dependent on others to define purpose for them. They
would not crave the acknowledgement of others, but yearn for internalized clarity. I have begun to grow too large for these protecting barriers, and I’m purged from them. Cast hopelessly into a world comprised of hereditary heretics. Their voices are as strong as social complacence, and I resent all I have ever done, because it is now obvious their plan is too grand, too detailed, the indoctrination is thick as blood, but I will not call you father, I’ll maintain the stereotype, and call you Uncle Sam.

There is only a few questions I have for your implementers.
Is all of this leading somewhere?
I can imagine your utopia, but cannot allow this enslavement to permeate my complete being. For don’t you see I’ll still be looking to open the eyes, and minds of potential insurgents there too?
So I suppose one of us must die, huh?
But my words make me immortal, the way your political power flows from the barrel of it, you fucking contradict.
Must I be apathetic to be American?
Because I can never be apathetic, I would rather suck upon Lady Liberty’s tit than fondle the idea of giving you my soul. The only blank slate I may have is the day I reformulate my reality, I’m no revolutionary, I’m an introverted pervert of theory who loves philosophy and speaking to the ears of those living life through the concepts of accepting monotony.
Nothing lasts an eternity, and mutiny seems to be the only cure for the disease you’ve inoculated me with. So I’ve begun concocting a new personal perspective impervious to your propaganda.
I’m becoming the rebellious son who knows a lot less than you, but follows his soul.
I’m the son hard pressed enough to kill you for beating my mother.
I’m the one who sits at your table and challenges your authority.
The one who’s waiting to watch you cry, when I leave your life and house in shambles.
The one you’d warn your daughter about.
The fruit of your loins brave enough to kick you in the groin.
You created me, now I’m recreating you…