What Are We Gonna Do With All This Trash?: Here's The Deep End, Here's Me Off The Deep End

March 06, 2007

Here's The Deep End, Here's Me Off The Deep End

Climbing to the top of the highest tree
Trying to get above all the usual that I see
Moving here and there
To float on air
And settle in an empty space
Startled by a cold wind repeatedly slapping my face
"That's right! I'm the Wind and I'm pissed!
All that defiance, subversion, and thinking equal opportunities missed
'Free your mind'?
That doesn't even make cents
I eat people and spit them out due to their inaction
Now that's what I call pure chewing satisfaction
So wake up! You're late
For jobs, meetings, classes, and other important dates
Your role is that of the slave
Best to fall in line with the other mindless knaves
There's no such thing as talent
Might as well fuck being valiant
I don't find any of this shit funny
Success depends on one thing: large amounts of money
Currency and pills seem to keep the rest happy
So why don't you get dressed for work
And do you mind making it snappy?
I'll even give you a glimpse of the sun for inspiration
No sense laying frozen, in pools of perspiration
Let's face it, when it really comes down to it
You don't even have the gall
To rise up, change, or give it some semblance of 'your all'
So why don't you just do yourself a favor
And follow the bouncing ball"

No comments:

Post a Comment

A History Of Trash

Trash, at first, was a pretty cool guy. You know, he’d come over with some beers, and you’d hang out and have a couple of laughs. Maybe Trash brought some weed with him, and you guys tried to sync up Dark Side Of The Moon with The Wizard Of Oz until you remembered you lost your VHS copy of that movie sometime in college and that you fucking hate Pink Floyd. Good times were had, nonetheless.

But then, you don’t know what changed, but Trash started to overstay his welcome. He’d just linger for hours, never taking the hint you wanted him to leave, no matter how many times you yawned obnoxiously or mentioned how early you had to get up tomorrow. Trash just didn’t get it. You were getting older. You didn’t have the time anymore to stay up until 3 a.m. to talk about the Port season of “The Wire” or how much you miss Jawbox. Eventually, you just stopped taking Trash’s phone calls and no longer replied to his group e-mails about sneaking into abandoned mental hospitals.

Last time you saw Trash, he was smoking alone outside a local dive bar, looking down at his decaying and mismatched shoes. You hoped he had been doing well. You hoped he had not been hurt by the disintegration of your friendship. And if he had, you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to tell him that even though people move on with their lives, it doesn’t mean they stop caring. You wanted him to see in your eyes a sincere appreciation for the time you shared, because all the relationships in our lives help make us who we are, and even if you weren’t the best of friends anymore, you wanted him to know that there would always be a piece of Trash in your heart.

But instead, you looked away and crossed the street. You were with your new girlfriend, and you really didn’t want to have to explain Trash to her. She’d never understand.