The Nirvana Express

Weird on riddles – lured by life’s mystique
Dead ideals from alpha to omega
A pile of dust is offered
In place of the promised form
Given a plastic sense, and a lying logic
We make a goose into a golden phoenix

The democratic mob elects its lying face
And calls itself freedom
Feasting on resentment
Force fed on the contaminating shame of others
Eating the bile again and again
We germs of god even hunt ourselves in sleep
Everything is burning
Sky beast sun drips dazzle dread blood
The stars fall into our eyes and become tears

Broke, buggered, and bewildered
But a broken spirit can always be repaired
By a cobbler of souls
But I, for one
Will not agree
To be fingered
By some wooden god