Of course there is no consistency to your personality,
your self’s as fractured as the moral authority-
that once steadied and calmed antiquity
but in its fall it seems we’re restless you and me.
God is not your father and sport is not your game,
you’d rather not shop or endeavour to look the same,
you’re confused bruv, stoned and lame
It’s a shame you don’t even long for fame.
The image of an artist, a writer of brooding intensity,
is what you think you’d like to be
‘it’s just that I’m crippled by daemons and apathy’
is what you say to me, but don’t fool yourself; you are free.
Its more that your preoccupied with hedonistic masturbation-
serotonin and dopamine elevation,
to even glance at a shared reality that offers you salvation,
from your chemical induced clawing mutation.
Sartre and Laing inform your vanity,
But friend, you’re losing your sanity.