Merry S-mas From Texas

Congregate mass of crass being
So sluggishly fleeing, we see our hair grow
The red dust of dead end roads we follow
Gather in deserted cemetery bone-yard souls
Our collected graves that are emotional bullet holes
Shot and shot down by ritual love or silly self suicide
Leaving what?
The serious selves, empty shells and pride?
Nothing much anyhow, a mere cramp in the now
Like ants crawling over bodies asleep made of sand
And the breeze carries tangled tumbleweed untruths
It bears barren bodies too, too tired to walk through
The hypothetical desert to the so called promised land
An unlikely promise or a probable lie
The usual governmental give and take
To forge hope, for it fuels the blind,
Wind up clockwork voters, suburban mechanoid maniacs
And paranoid paradoxes pretending to be people
Worship weapons, unaware as they unwillingly await their death
That though theirs guns dig deep, they leave only shallow graves.
2002