I don't wanna be there

I didn't go outside cause I didn't want to be there 

I don't want to see that Lithuanian bloke who sweeps our block paying lip service to existence with 

"good morning"; a cultivated return in learned pattern 

(cause that's the dance wether relief or retort depending on your weather) 

we rehearse the steps that tap and glide through human sludge in a  lonely quickstep 

with intervals modified in the dynamics of dodgems  

crossing roads where drivers have no faces 

but then you are just a shadow on the wrong side of out of the way during tempo changes  

Then you blend into the fray on a bus or a train 

where a warm musk of comatose molecules are drank as custom between breakfast and lunch  

and packed in mannequins' ricochet rucksacks  

as eye contact retreats  

and breathing cowers under an illusion of wagging index fingers 

and in this box of bolstered zombies monoxide flies 

as breathing dies 

and we read lives until that randomly allocated station 

where we walk in line to the plantation  

where Knights wear shirts  

and maidens pink pasted faces  

to stab sanity 

and piss sub-bureaucracies of circular pointlessness  

above all else 

 

If preservation knows selfishness  

the way society is capitalist  

the dichotomy of existence is restlessness suppressed 

and I'd rather just as well stay indoors