kicks keep getting harder to find; sad kids on the street looking for a fix. but we aren't doing it, and neither are our vitamins. trying to speed up but instead we're stuck in one long desperate night hiding from the sun and our poor, poor mothers. it's got me thinking that maybe all those bloody mary stories that validated this kind of living weren't really funny at all. this gang is just a house of cards balanced oh so preciously on heavy hoods and sharp tongues.
out there, we've got our boys handing out something in the desert, like it was ours to give in the first place. pressing palms and a whip-snap smile. baghdad brand realism is fatalism, and hope rises and falls, falls, falls with dropping bombs, bombs, bombs while those hardhat kids pump the bluest of blood through arms stacking ideologies sky-high on dead bodies, the decay and foreseeable fall be damned. we've arrived to hold the horse's head under water.
and fuck yes i want to fight: to offer more than dime store ideology and tedious punk rock prose. but it seems you can't knock down a house of cards' even those struck on those rotting ribs and spines' if all you're pushing is your own bullshit. and i know it sounds wrong, but look, i've got it hard, second floor living without a yard. and shit, it may be years until my dreams match my pay. for us honest americans, crisis is a relative term at the end of the day.
at the end of days, a people is not only what it does; it's also what it puts up with, what it tolerates. so while we all sit by, well, we all do what we have to do. we're the spectator sinners. we're each shattered lives and battered wives. we're all fucked.