Americans, like human beings everywhere, believe many things that are obviously untrue…Their most destructive untruth is that it is very easy for any American to make money. They will not acknowledge how in fact hard money is to come by, and, therefore, those who have no money blame and blame and blame themselves. This inward blame has been a treasure for the rich and powerful, who have had to do less for their poor, publicly and privately, than any other ruling class since, say, Napoleonic times.
Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five (via goodleftund0ne)

In our pockets, receipts and machines.
In our estate the lift doesn’t work.
Walking is hard, ‘cos here it’s meant to be.
In our flunky fingers, silver rings and sweat,
from all that worried waiting for things to happen;
you know they should, if only they would.
But in our heads, visions of getting beat up in back alleyways.
Too much mincing about.
Our schemes devalue our youth.
It’s inside your burning veins.
I’m in love with the solidarity that we know longer exist.
The 80’s soul boy misunderstood letters.
All those obscure books and films and 45s;
let convictions strengthen love for you, more than you can know.

In our bones it feels like I’m going cold, physical.
Am I disappearing from sight?
No friends, or lovers, or letters.
In our hearts a secret,
behind phone box language.
Bugs in the tap.
There are no secrets kept hidden in this big seedy city.
In our mouths: contempt, tops of alcoholic lies dribbling proletarian junk, like a spastic.

Every year you get a little sadder, a little drunker.
A little more violent, cynical, waiting for direction or a new discipline.
In our pants, hard cocks, a ruffian on the stairs
Writing dirty words in Archway.
“So the only reason you play bad guitar is to get a bad reaction…
All this clone collective band shit hides your boredom, contempt, and no-ideas.”
Our only ambition is just to die.

Solidarity with other bands is good, we have no ideas.
In our palms: silver rings to give to young brides;
kept safe for now, in our souls important decisions wait.
Inside creeping out, pushing you forward into
an abyss of future uncertainty, of torture, treated cloth.
Climbing like a monkey to reach the top of stairs, lift broken down.
Get into the car, under the concrete cement.
Go home quickly ‘cos we have no-ideas.

In discos chatting up girls, dropping gins, slurring stupid words.
Nicotine fingers reaching out.
Go home and listen to your cracking needle records in stained sleeves.
Put it all into unfocused clarity:
Estates all over, full of despair and violence,
loud radios are settling our nerves.
We look to get back into tunes and chords,
we sing and cry all night…
And in the morning, it starts again (and again, and again).

It makes the guitar snap, all through the pissed-up slumber.
Your body is getting colder, there’s no more purpose.
Lost, nowhere to go, have they chucked you out of school?
Made you walk the parks?
I wanted to be a monkey, not end up a cartoon…

We have no ideas.