Stricken

I met my morning with a lithium flush
the crew preferred the traditional libations
we stood unfurled in our own skins
before an unscheduled eclipse
and stumbled blindly in the dark
our confusion fuelled by hard liquor
and assorted oriental confections

I tried for the great indoors
but my inside was out
as my doors had been confiscated
during the last epic iconoclast
doors are bourgeois affectations
and privacy has been banished
here in the electric society
we are mere avatars for the combine
we do our shit and eat our bread
then watch the highlights on TV
that’s where we’re at now
nothing is real unless it’s been on TV

the tube has seared our minds
so we turn to moonshine and jimson weed
to enhance our perverse new benedictions
consequently many have been struck down
with the dread psycho reflux
but no-one cares for the stricken
no-one feeds their beasts or tills their soil
while they are lost to the great no no
for a man must make his own meat
to earn his fraction from the combine
.