|
Sunday, August 8, 2004
Nothing left to do but run run run
So here's to all the system slavers, those who slave away for this society each day, for those who work their hearts and their hearts are left bruised.
It feels selfish, hubrant, egotistical to say that work was hard for me today, because it was hard for all of us who slave. It's not just me today who worked. It's all of us here in this Capitalisitic society.
And I'm not talking about those bigwigs, those overseerers. Those slave drivers. Although their life is hard, ours is harder. Because you see, I'm talking about those at the bottom, way down the line, with the minimum wage jobs, who do all the real work.
I'm even talking about those who have medium jobs, who are with a College education and somewhat higher up, but not really. They also work hard, for their families if they have them, which most do.
And really, it's the middle class of American society that keeps it alive. Without it, there would be no bountiful, beautiful Capitialistic United States. It just wouldn't work without them.
We all worked hard today, some harder than others, and I hear all your voices, out there, in misery, sick and tired of this drib, dull, existence we live in, but without enough confidence to say what you really think.
Well, I want your voice to be heard. I want you to speak out. For, we are the workingmen, and women, of the United States, and of other Capitialisitic socities; we slave our entire lives--some with easier jobs than others, some with jobs a little higher up--for that one thing, called money.
Why, I never used to believe in a God. I never did. You'd never catch me dead saying I believed in God. But, since the inception of the job I've recently had the wonderful chance to have, I've found God. I've found what once I thought was merely a lie, was merely impossible.
I've found the lust, I've found the greed, in my eyes there's dollar signs, in my heart there's green, there's an endless abundance of envy, of want, of desire for what in reality is just paper.
This minted paper is worth to me more than my entire life, more than any person I could get on this earth. It matters to me above all else because it is the key which unlocks my survival.
Under the green paper's watch, I am given the ability to live, and it's money's god-given right that lets me live off of it. Who cares if you have the right to live, because in this society it's the natural selection--it's the who's best will be the best, and who's the weakest will fall like nothing before. Because money is power. It is power.
It is more power than any person. It is more power than anything you've ever seen before. It's so powerful, it's what life is. It's the endless worship of money. This is the essence, the breath of life. It allows you to breathe. Allows you to live. Allows you to survive, it is indespensable. You cannot get rid of it. Without money, there is nothing.
We all--the workingclass of America--work each and every day, and while we slave away, others are benefitting from it. These are those with power--with the faith of God--all over them, so much all over them that the stench drives me bloody mad. It makes me want, want, want--desire, lust--wish for, need to have. Their smell drives me mad.
No, I did not ever think I'd believe in God, nor did I think I would find him. But I have.
Money is God. It's as simple and elementary as that.
Without money, there is no life. With money, there is life.
Money creates everything. It builds roads. It builds houses. It builds intellect. It builds brawn. It builds beauty. It builds love. It builds life. Money is the alpha, it is the omega--it is the first, it is the last--it is everything and nothing--it is the beginning, and it is the end.
Without it, us, the working class, is nothing. Without it there is no power. Without it we are weak and powerless. We have nothing left to gain or do.
This is all we know. This is what it is. It's tough it's rough, but it's what we do. No one gives us a big pat on the shoulder for doing this. No one realizes we've wasted our lives for this money, for this God.
We are the Jesus Christs. We are being crucified on the cross of our own making. We were born into the cross line, we go in single file, and slowly we come to the cross as we near the right age. And then we're put onto it to hang for the rest of our lives, our eyes afire with desire for money, for power, for a want which can never be satisfied.
We get bruised, we clutch, we feel blood rushing all around us--the blood of our blood money pooling around us, filling us, becoming all we know, becoming what feels us when we're empty. We bleed we suffer we pain for money, all for it.
We save it, we conserve it. And when we die, our money is what buries us. When we die, our money is what kills us. We are the slaves, we work and work, and that is all we know. We forgot long ago what it meant to be alive, what it meant to have a feeling to change the world.
When I die, don't bury me in a cemetary. Why, where I died is in the bank. That is where I died. Bury me there, hold my funeral service there. The money is what killed me. It was a cancer. It infected me. It's all I knew my whole life, till the day I died. It was malignant. Wouldn't stop. All I knew.
When I die, don't waste my hard earned blood money on what I meant for it to be. Let's do some irony. When I die, would you burn that mother fucker for me? Would you burn all of it for me? All of the mother fucker? That plague? That cancer? That disease? That virus? That death?
Would you burn all my money? All of that mother fucker?
There's something beautiful I see about that burning ash of my money, all of it that I've slaved away to earn. It's like taking off these chains finally. Unshakle me, let me be, let's be free.
This is a salute to you all. A passing memoir to you all.
Can't we revolt? We could overthrow it all. We could change it all. Yet we lie dormant dead. We do nothing. Can't you do something? Can't we give up our God?
Here's to the mother fucker called money. Here's to the mother fucker and how it fucked up the whole world.
Comments
(0)
« Home |
|