The Boneyard

Welcome to the Boneyard. Burial of nearly established yearnings and righteous demands.

Where change never progresses beyond the spreading awareness stage - and this awareness is so often constructed on a foundation of half-truths and poorly researched information. We live in a shopping mall of false revolution - clad in our Che Guevara t-shirts, playing My Little Kony down by the Guantanamo Bay, hoping we don't drop the SOPA and feeling a level of self-satisfaction that would suggest our Facebook Status actually fixes a fucking thing. All we do is find new ways to Occupy our time.

While the Vatican CEO stands in a Jesus Christ Pose holding Mother Earth bent over an oil barrel. Tell me that we're on the right track. When we strip our ideas of their armour and shackle them to a table, running water over their bodies and up their nostrils, hearing them choke and spit, damaged enough to lose their effectiveness, but alive enough that we can parade their condition around for all to see, to solidify our positions as free thinkers and world shakers, and ensure the world we're not just looking for a cure to our waterboredom.

Welcome to the Boneyard. Built over negative energy yearly, and rapidly deteriorating.

Living in search of elusive lucidity, creative clarity, and metaphors mixed with cannibal seasonings - Where family money allows full use of cheap scotch and cherry-flavoured Rohypnol with not a whisper uttered - and yet a man forced into the streets for over a decade is arrested for masturbating in the privacy of his own home. Where the roads are repaired before they're finished. Where children hold signs reading "God hates Fags" before they're old enough to truly understand the ideas behind any of those 3 words.

Where we shake hands and pat backs, showing gratitude for platitudes, growing gardens of funeral flowers to convince ourselves we're not just waiting to die. Where each tick of the clock burrows beneath our existent shell as we cry cyst and pay to have the time removed. Where doubt gestates at twice the rate of a new idea, and we still find time to gloat about that project we're considering.

Welcome to the Boneyard. Betrayal or neglect. Elsewise, you're a rare dish.

Bargaining over nothing except yachts and renewable dictators.

Binging on narcissistic empathy, animal rationality, death.

Building our numbers each year among ransomed destitution.

Welcome to the Boneyard.

Welcome Home.