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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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The Blood in My Veins
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I walk the older streets, listen to the chorus of all these diseased
machines that people don't see, big iron ones that have done their work for
years without service because they're not paid attention. It's easier to
think that way, get lost in that drone, you don't have to process the storms
of information that the people you see tend to throw at you unintentionally.
Things happen all around. Old man on the corner, his eyes seem to roll
back into his head, radiating the idea that he's been through more than
anybody else, and because of that, thought about everything more, even though
in our heads we've all got the same bullshit that we think is so important
we've just got to preach it to the world. Some kids sitting cross-legged in
a circle, passing the time with talk that's so basically human and old that
it's almost silence. Fourteen different logos fighting to catch my eye at
once, each unique in the same way.
Of course, my mind isn't onto all this shit, just my eye, but I'm not
thinking about anything anyway. Just walking.
Without my lover I would be bitter, angry, because the most beautiful
people I'd known in my life were all unable to communicate their minds. They
had lost the desire to communicate, and sought simply to learn for themselves.
I blamed the system, before. Not the system as in government, society,
whatever, but the actual structure within the apparent chaos of 'reality'-
one action followed by a burst of reactions.
Now, though, I feel a sort of compassion-apathy for it all. The
constant state of change in an individual layered on top of the lack of
motion in the big picture. The world is a slow-motion time machine, and I
am its muted observer, interested only in outcomes and never their
ramifications. Life's not unfair, it's just the way it is.
I'm still walking through all of this, ideas transforming, combining,
mating in my head, ideas my actual self is not responsible for, my body and
soul reaching a state of euphoria. The entire mass consciousness is laid
before me the way a turkey would be set out on Thanksgiving. My five senses
sculpted into a perfect unity. Time is passing, but I'm not moving. Not a
muscle, not a neuron.
Then, without a word of goodbye, in a single instant, my lover leaves my
mind and my veins. The places she had caressed me turn to wounds, and I am
left, blind, under the sun that I know will kill me. And I still hear the
wailing of these diseased machines.
-rb.
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