At yer grind, at the bottom where it’s dirty—and you’re filthy as a cloud spawned galaxy—swirling about a muddy puddle.
The backbreaking labor of the industrial working class. We are but yet another version of the past.
Drink way yer merry soul, and forget the lies you knew were told. Cover your heart for the nights are cold—long live the night.
“Long night ahead. Drop of coffee would do us good.”
The sirens’re calling—haunting me moments for far away shores.
Wank way yer lonely misery and in doing so cry out to the whsipering northern forests. Recall those sacrilegious mumbles.
Sisyphus at the lighthouse, this spiraling Mount Olympus, carrying a bolder up the peak. Searching for meaning. Lies slithering down trickling, a thick dripping jelly.
Toil ye merry men of toil and stale drink. Toil ye life’s dread betwixt a chasm of wet sand. You’ll wake up to a one-eyed seagull at ya pecker. Did you know these evil birds used to be sailers?
The light keeps shine through the cool dark night. The wheels like gears keep spinning. Repeating the present. You can feel the weight on your shoulders. Nothing like a good stale drink.
The wind blows dirty water in your face. Stranded on lighthouse sand. The sirens call ye tuh sea. The undeniable rage of the waves—the heartbeat of Poseidon’s grumpy old forgotten son.
“Get to work young lad.”
Dreams of the sea, mating with a woman half-fish.
“Yer so mad you know not up from down.”
Somewhere in the midst you figure, “I like being in the dark.” And when the waves flood you hope the ocean washes way all the filth.
So—poverty is violence.
Up they’re at the head of the lighthouse the sublime object of ideology awaits thee. You wish to taste this forbidden fruit, miserly protected—hoarded by the keeper of knowledge.
Face covered in shit as you reach your hand out and touch the glow—an otherworldly light at the heart of a giant lamp—out on the great blue. The gulls shall pick at your insides.
