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This is actually meant to be performed as a slam or spoken word piece. It has been performed and well received at the Tonic Room in Chicago and Mackey's in Island Lake, IL. I am currently working on putting together an audio recording of this to share.

Children of the Apocolypse

B29559d4a577ce9da5357fb9f03a53abby Andrew Breen24 Aug 2013

Teacher feature:
Creature from the
black lagoon
will eat you alive,
My children of the apocalypse,
lock lips
with the person you love
because the world is ruled by
a green eyed hawk
not a dove.
I’m sorry to break your hearts.
But in this world of false starts
and epic fails
there are no fairy tale
Soon enough,
most of you will be grown
but, before then, the seeds of another man’s truth
must be sewn.
We all exist in a sphere of uncertainty.
Boys and girls,
just kind of swirls
And we are all burdened with a little bit of angst.
It’s the human condition.
Extraordinary rendition,
the sending of your too old souls
to another wrinkle in
time and space.
It’s not your fault,
my victims of sin at birth
that adults tore
the Earth asunder
with radioactive thunder
and lightning.
My wheat chaff
of the world’s fields gone to famine
I apologize.
Crystal clear
over this P.A.
when I say
The adults in your life never wanted it this way.
A world of profit driven violence
and politicians and parents that sit
in silence and inaction…

(Ladies and Gentlemen, my stanzas are subject to government redaction)

And since I am censored,
I will just say it this way:
it is not fair of us with the missile keys
to make the silent planet
a place to unsafe to play.
The sound, the fury,
nothing so blurry
as the sonic movements of youth.
The Earth is your stage,
so, take or make your part.
Grip mics to your lips,
not pistol grips,
and make art.
Because I’ve said it once,
but I’ll say it again.
It’s not your fault
that adults flew planes into buildings
on the right coast.
The stains of blood and smoke
are like ghosts
haunting us to this day.
Fill your lungs
with the toxic breath
and let it flo – like poetry.
Infamous calls his slow, flow poetry
My children of the apocalypse,
those that are already dead,
keep those lips locked
up tight
throughout the night
and it just might
keep you right in the head.
God is dead
and he was red.

Enough said.
For now.