Saturday, 21 November 2015

Nerve-racking Hobbies

Uneasy crowds who stroll holding hands on counting rhythm 
Uncertainty provides the breeding ground for chaos 
Confusion is the manifestation of chaos always 
Who is the foe in the face of fucked up politics
Leave politics to the politicians 
Who party too hard 
Till dawns on our desperation it’s unlikely for them to turn off the light
It’s never the ideal situation 
When everything is beautiful nothing is 
The complete bullshit we pave on faces with concrete to garner confrontation  
The more the merrier
The gift of flowers of mulitcolour expression
What are flowers to dead people anyway 
The people for whom we deprive the desire of introducing conversation are no longer
Our good friend who knows better than to give flowers to old people
The people 
Who people the room for the people’s sake
To keep us running in the rat race
Except as humans we don’t need to obey the plunge great enough 
In order to retain the masterpiece 
Of art so high the artist is the best judge he’s got 
Enough critics on his back already
The fortune of each foul word 
Falling from the troubled mouth
Is a tragedy of the trap for vulnerable esteem 
Who cling on nerves like they would on monkey bars that are the old sport 
In the nostalgic thriller
Three more critics 
And the hairy old beast that beats his chest 
Behind the desk the chef-in-chief
In charge of cooking for hungry critics
A masterpiece riddled with enough fecal matter 
For the picky customer
Who salivate from lips, thinning with jealousy