Licensed CC-BY.
Home is a minefield of youth in transit.
I have friended swimming hobos,
who lose their minds to the cargo rooms of the next ship to western paradise;
because even explosives believe in saviors.
Youngsters believe in bikes streaming the streets of a third world democracy,
along with open faced gutters and pictures of king, king, king sweeping by.
Can’t draw the line between contradictions and mockery of a people.
They gell their hair into a confused interpretation of White America, roll dollar bills to sniff
the gravel off their knees from tripping over broken speedbumps
and a life that crashes into despair often.
Popping cheap pills on the outskirts of inner-city refugee camps, looking for colored
imaginations, only to seek serenity in hysteria.
Contemplating suicide on the ledges of the Ministry of Interior affairs.
then getting sentenced to prison for contemplating suicide.
Killing the lights,
huddled in underground artist laboratories,
sinking in puddles of violet haze.
and it echoes…
“Can’t afford electricity bills.” “Graffiti anarchist lines on police station walls.”
Then it goes…
“Can’t change election laws.” “Browse one way tickets to Cuba.”
I say grow the balls it takes to own your country,
I am done being given up on in divorces with passports.
in our miles and miles of depression,
in your alcohol addictions and detox prisons,
and all the ways you try to numb it out.
Meanwhile I am left standing,
standing,
waiting
to go
down.
Constantly finding myself on the ledges of the Ministry of Interior Affairs,
rediscovering my appreciation for rock bottoms.
And I see it coming
the nudity of pocket, the engine groan of 6 million empty stomachs,
the damned fury for change that sets border control on fire,
and all morality collapses.
Right then, we wont hate;
because I ain’t having sons that carry guns to the playground.
I have made honest attempts at disarmament.
Make honest attempts at disarmament,
and repossess the gravity of sunsets.
