Son of A Gun in The Wild West [33]

Culture Vultures dining on the carcasses,

of unsuspecting artists who recently departed this, culture that acts as if everyone is targeted,

& surprise, we are, whether bisexual or bipartisan,

or both no vote only the onset of consumer communism, swimming in a mainstream socialist monarchism,

a subconscious stream of consciousness, consumed by a constantly contradicting,

condition of post modern consumerism,

an avalanche of retail therapy & the avant of avant-gardism, doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition, just has to be better packaged & effectively marketed, sold our souls for glitter not gold the ego is an extortionist, don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance, lost every investment like back when The Great Depression hit,

just look at what the mass media market did,

our collective memories & ancient traditions all but forgotten, rewired genes in designer jeans on intoxicants, symbolizing a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s, want to end this madness but don’t know who started it, so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,

as we absorb Virtual Reality & ignore Actual Reality we slip,

into a vivid collectively created occultism of Oculus, Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences...

THH3 142 ∆

Neglecting the blueprint,

everybody’s a studio gangsta these days just ask 50 Cent, ethically bankrupt lazy played daisies too spent to invent, futilely trying to copy Jay-Z’s original Blueprint,

but no body has a DJ Clue what to do or where to begin, nor a Ty Dolla to spare still everyone’s got their two cents, all opinions given without consideration for common sense, no motivation or wisdom taken from the Grand Architect, what good is giving good advice if no one is taking it,

or even taking the time to listen they just dismiss it quick, showing off trophies boldly donating charity checks, acting like champions we bare & beat our chest, wearing fool’s gold & blood diamonds to gain respect, sitting on the throne but we’ve won nothing yet,

honestly it feels like we haven’t even started yet,

still we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance, slaves of an alien race hand on hearts we pledge allegiances, with our unquestioning obedience & faux pas ambiance.

& it’s all almost over for our entire empire,

so every moment better cherish it,

bleached white robes with Chipko sandals,

we hold the reins to Her Majesty’s chariot, whipping the 500 horses to a froth with no compassion at all, our Kings are all Pawns & our Princes are the pettiest,

whipping in a Cadillac crashing into a pole then walking off, driving in the fast lane living the fast life gets you buried quick,

THH3 143 ∆

so I try & pace it & not get too wasted still I feel very sick, seems like it’s time to go but honestly I’m not ready yet, though when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, that’s when the times up & it’s time to depart this ship,

but you can’t rush good art & I’m an articulating artisan, so I keep being an artist until departing on a martian ship, artfully getting away with The Heist of the day no pardonin’, in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet, which of course means no divorce from any or all of this, so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice, love is star crossed & colorblind in it’s...