Poem: Some kind of an obituary

Poe1. Code of conduct

Rule number one:
"Whenever a situation occurs, where the rules don't apply, a new one must be compiled."
How else can one know what's right?
How else can one know how to live your life?
Stay in line!
One must obey at all times.

Stop! That's far enough.

A sudden realization.
A revelation of a kind.

It's all in the mind:
the chains that bound us are devised by us.

-How can it be? Some kind of rules must apply?
-Why?

It's for you to decide, not me.
Go, march in their line if you want to:
you'd make a hell of a cannon fodder.
Good looking too, in that shiny uniform they'd give you.

If you're lucky you might earn yourself a medal when you're dead.
What an honour.
Go before you miss the funeral.
Let me enjoy my freedom.


2. The rise and demise of reason

Despite my heresy,
Despise i thy view of matters.
Thy way to say: "There's only one way"

An hypocrite, say i

"Save thine immortal soul" - i hear you cry.
"Mine is a mortal one" - i calmly explain to your face.
An argument follows... soon to be set aside.

What a fine lad, a true fellow of mine.
No petty thing can come between you and i.

Hear, my friend, what i have in mind:
"Let us take the wrong turn this time"
Have some of this wine of mine.
Have a sip, have a pint,
or more if you like.


3. Idealism and beyond

Not everyone is like us.
To tell a fact, nor are we.
We know it to be untrue - but we say it anyway.

The others, the ones not like us.
You know the type, don't you?

The ones not unlike us.
The ones that just don't care.

They don't see the world as we do.
It's not like they have less love.
More like they hate more -
or maybe they just don't hate enough.
I'm not sure about that.

Anyway,
it's their fault that the world is turning to a shithole.
Some kind of a cheap whorehouse,
with a damp smell and the walls,
painted with all the shades of grey.
Only a few black and white spots remain,
and a red bloodstain,
a little drop that just bled from the nose of some junkie.

The paint is already peeling off.
Falling on the floor with broken bottles, cigar stubs,
vomit, dust, and all the other useless scum that
nobody cared to sweep off.


4. The prophecy

The brave new world:
a brothel where hundred year old whores
are stuffed up, stretched and painted,
in a failed attempt to make them look like teenagers.

That's the kind of a world you'll soon live in -
you're forced to be a customer,
and you'll have to pay for it.

I can smell it already:
all the scents, feelings and colours,
blended together to form an useless,
foul smelling blob of grey shit.

Someone should do something,
but they don't.
To hell with them!
I'm tired.
I don't care anymore.
So i just lay back now, enjoy the ride,
and let it all rot around me.
Someone should do something.
Someone else.