Stone by stone

I'm tired of the choppers causing the vinyl to skip.
Always thuk-thuk-thukking over the high-rises,
following lead-hearted killers
as only another machine can. They're there
to protect me, but the music wards off the
silence. And that's the greater danger.

                            . . .

               I always feel slightly cheated
               when I cross the street in the middle of traffic
               and the light changes for me. How dare the world
               take away my only little means left
               of taking what I want?

                            . . .

I've always been intrigued by smokers' voices,
but I guess you can't get the threadbare vocal cords
without the dedication to self-destruction. Then again
when you live by the razor-sharp straight-edge
you die by it too. That's always struck me as a dreadfully
boring way to die. I guess I'll find out.

                            . . .

               I find myself judging people
               by their animal survival genes.
               Fear of spiders, of dogs, insects and rats,
               attraction to sweets, to salt, to fats
               or to fatty deposits... And the desire
               to unstitch civilization at the seams.

                            . . .

After-dinner coffee tastes richer than the morning cup.
Slower than the groggy, desperate mainline,
relishing the earthy aromas of introspection,
stories of times past, people come and gone,
what could've been. A touch of cream
to smooth those full, bitter flavors.

                            . . .

               The world hates a rebel.
                   The rebel hates the world.
                       The world loves a rebel
                        because he's a mighty
                       convenient outlet.
                   The rebel hates the world.
               The world turns.