Among the clutter of papers and thoughts

Couch-bound  
we wonder who we are  
watching the flies  
inside our empty hands.  
And the wind is swirling  
dust, dirt and despair  
on the black pavements  
of the dying city  
 
A faulty component,  
manufactured in series  
with some weird malfunction  
 
A life exhausted  
in return for nothing,  
a nothing wrapped in gift paper  
 
I know, my feelings are incompatibles  
with a world where one must be functional,  
incapable of independent thought  
 
Why can not I be like others?  
An happy consumer,    
greedy for subculture  
 
Why I do not surrender  
to this commercially appealing  
pseudo existence?    
 
Watching television,  
playing video-games,  
chatting with my mobile,  
walking the dog...  
 
Why doesn't excite me  
the privacy of the VIP,  
the wealth of billionaires,  
the pathetic lines of pimps and whores?  
 
I am unfit,    
a strange beast,  
anti-social, anti-system,  
condemned to oblivion  
 
I am so tired  
tired of the other  
and especially of myself  
 
I stay here, sitting on the floor  
waiting to die, to fossilize,  
among the clutter  
of papers and thoughts  
 
And the phone rings  
on the opposite side of the hall  
so far away ...  
I do not feel like answering  
 
I crawl on all fours to respond  
but I stop in mid-route, exhausted,  
fuck-off, I give up,    
I lay back, lighting a cigarette  
 
Have you ever felt lethargic,  
as if life does not belong to you?
When nothing seems worthwhile  
and everything demanded too much effort?  
 
This is the way I feel  
indeed, worse than that,  
all of these times are worse  
 
That what went wrong yesterday  
Is many times worse today  
everything accelerates, solidifies  
and returns to the dust  
 
Whole districts  
are being dragged away, dazed  
People go to the employment office  
and queue for nothing to do  
 
We age and still  
there is nothing to do  
We spend our lives  
wandering aimlessly  
 
Lying on the couch  
we wonder who we are  
watching the flies    
inside our empty hands  
 
And the wind is swirling  
dust, dirt and despair  
on the black pavements  
of the dying city.