A Litany of Fucks

Fuck capitalism, man -

gaudy brothel-lined streets peddling stimulation,

tomorrow’s evanescent vogue, today’s intoxication;

blind spots of the mind where someone’s invisible hand meddles.

Fuck the far cast shadow of depression, man -

phantasmagoric smiling masks, boxed up tears,

hallucinated freedoms in an austere slave new world;

a globalised gulag selling dreams but breeding recession.

Fuck letting the child grow up, man -

he never left; the seed of Freud exploded,

a man grown to be perplexed, form eroded;

he wanders a desert of ideas, hand and cup empty.

Fuck doublethink and war, man –

some children learn while some children beg;

racketeers steal our peace and still colonise our minds;

they tricked the past, stole the present, and made the future poor.

Fuck the rising tide of anxiety, man -

hard knots of conscience and misdirection,

ambitions forgotten in hash clouds of procrastination

rising above routine to stave off the apocalypse.

Fuck taxes and employment, man –

I give up my days to extend malaise, endless days,

a spectral figure in a corridor living two lives, left wondering;

mum, dad, grandma, I send you my compliments.

Fuck the elites, man -

a conceited aristocracy gathering dust, New Rome’s geritocracy,

top hats outdated now, smog faded, yet the selfsame plutocracy;

they trade in men in jungles, mud and sand for such crimson thrones.

Fuck all inglorious shopping emporia, man –

an artless culture of wingless vultures

seeking, yearning, circling on the selfsame wheel,

samsara; no matter what you own, who adores you?

Fuck the top 40, man –

trapped with Sunday in a car, hills hills hills, banal simplicity,

the same old voices starve imagination’s eccentricity;

machine gunned tin voices inside a child’s eggshell head.

Fuck the vainglory of privilege, man –

private schools and silver spoons, remembering backyard war games,

brushes against the lurking sense of Fear, thinking it would be better

to be dead than to let my poor broken self their noblesse damage.

Fuck climate change, man –

fuck the fire of apathy brewing in a cauldron of egos

whilst mother nature’s magic sapiens’ machine undoes;

among looming fossils of empire, we rage as graveyards beckon.

Fuck the world we live in, man –

suffering is the dilemma of this game, timeless angst ridden days,

dreamless amnesiac nights: the cosmic playground of ideas paradox;

the way some of our kind deal with it makes me fucking livid.

Fuck the dream of a muse, man –

her constant accusations; my apologetic self-deprecations;

ultimate emasculation primed with much manipulation;

I left because of him because he reminded me of myself.

Fuck subversion, man -

don’t tell anybody, but I’m done with ideals

because liberty lies in tatters, freedom hangs in chains;

that revolution ever ends is a skeptic’s last assertion.

Fuck nirvana, man –

fuck chasing perfection,

fuck futile inflections,

fuck the bodhi tree; we’re chopping them down.

Fuck luck, man –

An ancient way, or common sense, tells me it is foolhardiness to bet

on luck, delusions, suits, colours, love, and the speed of locomotion;

idle self-congratulation feels like self-flagellation, so this litany of fucks.