Graffiti covered stop signs become targets
for red knuckle punches.
The only people allowed to draw any blood
are the authorities.
Self righteous in the dishing out of violence,
training dogs to bite the testicles off of those
who try to run away.
Loud music shaking the windows in cars,
they bend the bars to get a better view
of all the planes and the stars.
We lived on Mars covering it all with sphinxes,
and neon signs; advertising everything
we were told to never talk about.
Within the riots there will always be a lie
that we can’t help but shout.
New art born out of old sound
twisted from the metal underground,
like a collage of all they hoped would die.
They try to hold us down, but they can’t stop us
when we start to fly.
Teleporting Typewriter 