the apathetic nights of middle america.

something is sick in the soil, my legs ache with the solemn guilt prescribed by a puritan puppet dictator. we huddle around softly burning nooses and wish that we could have utilized them in a more cowardly fashion. the apathetic nights, the lonely nights, the nights where you go off with the boys to drink beer and build a fire, the nights where you're fueled with amphetamine and construct plans out of intangible objects presented to you by the local city council. we are young, our chests resonate with the hope of punk rock yet we all we are surrounded by the same suffocating miasma which clogs the arteries feeding our delirious fantasies of a life not so marred by the grievous actions of our forefathers. how can we pretend that our history is not a vacuum of prejudices? we are all niggers. how can we pretend that our history is not just a story of secret passion and latent homosexuality? we are all queers. reality is a fascistic mechanism constructed by old white european men who never had to lift a finger. this authority is necessary, and without?

well i'd still be sitting by the river drink beer like a townie, except...there is no town here

when home becomes a word as casually discarded as the reason which those "in charge" have so easily discarded, the lines begin to blur. and nothing looks clear anymore. it's all a muddled romp of excess and self-indulgence. wishing that there could be a town here, a place where the silent sunday mornings cleanse the tar off of your nicotine stained lungs and that booze on your breath isn't so bad anymore. if there was a town here we'd all be saved individuals in the church of an ambiguously calm life, we can dream and wander and hope

and yet i'd still be sitting by the river drinking beer like a townie, but I already learned there is no town here.