The Great Fake Society

The new age artist, their billboard Emergency Artist plastered on the wall of the new artist colony across the street, maybe the state of creation is on life support, cause the only thing I see tonight at this so call hipster bar is bunch of people who shop to look cool and learn enough to make others believe their individuality is a microcosm of substance in their words and behavior, from which nothing can be further from the truth, pour me another overpriced five dollar microbrew and wonder about the miracles of idealism bookended with the reality of being in a shitty job, unemployed, and or maxed out on credit. There is movement tonight even with the overplayed recycled eight generation indie rock playing on the jukebox at the moment, everyone here is waiting to die, in their own manner of course, sure, I am doing the same it seems, as the bartender in her sleeved tattooed arm serves me another beer, she could have easily just have been some arm trophy of a white collar slave while shaking her tits at one of the many local hotel ultra pools on the weekend, but not to pick on women, the guys here too, look like urban cowboys and poster children from the diluge of punk rock kids who live through Urban Outfitters and light socialist literature, blinded, the entire lot, who survive on more than I could ever wish for, even though I have more, it bugs me, does not make me feel complete, probably less than that, a tide receeding, forgetting, human nature, instinct, found cause, the real raw material not to be ignored.

This is what there is not enough of in the world right now, the just cause, the absolute answer no one wants to comprehend or acknowledge, the party was too much fun, please do not let it end, keep pumping me full of things, ideas, and dreams void of substance, wisdom is obsolete, littering the street in large piles like cow shit, fertiliziing abstract ideas that blossom in grotesque thorn like plants with beautiful petals but are sharp to the touch so everyone stays away. The delicate blossoms are gifts with no takers, only a few who ramble the streets beyond comprehension, speaking in tongues of the future, the edge walkers who have already made sense of the 22nd century, but who wants to listen, much easier to sit at a bar and talk amongst like minded people no matter how cool the crowd seems, cooler the crowd, deeper the meaning, right? Sure, that is what the clever children of alternative america want you to think, at the base they are still the outcasts that turned around and made their own status quo, only to annhilate everyone else, so what is the point, dissolve slowly, praise the next hip thing, disdain the next thing that is a bit too close to the point at exposing them for their obvious middle class traits, different wrapping, same results, like a christmas present wrapped in toilet paper, still a turd under all that packaging.