The soulless streets
Black and red pavement
Yellow lines where they stand
Gun barrels glow in either hand
Trained sights on their brothers
Sisters watching from either sidewalk
Dividing their lives and their futures
Setting up the failure
That shadows their brothers
Freedom calls to us
From the depths of hell
Outside of human irrationality
Easily wrenched by the nameless
And we try to pass blame
One of our own the culprit
To end would mean despotism
And to be unfree again
Have a looksie at Marc Johns’ photostream. It’s full of funny, surreal, stream-of-consciousness style art.
It looks like the shit has truly his the fan. P. Diddy is now forced to fly commercial due to the high operational (fuel) costs of his private jet. How will he survive in such a tight space flanked by the stink of the middle class? Proof. He totally feels your misery, people.
Next up to plate
Another innocent society
Consumed with a morbid gait
Consuming sans sobriety
Cultural wasteland wake
Too much to abate
For if their luxuries you take
Find yourself next to plate
“Confession frees, but power reduces one to silence; the truth does not belong to the order of power, but shares an original affinity with freedom: traditional themes in philosophy, which a ‘political history of truth’ would have to overturn by showing that truth is not by nature free — nor error servile — but that its production is thoroughly imbued with relations of power.”
Michel Foucault, A History of Sexuality Volume 1: An Introduction, 60.