Blood Of The Past

All the many corpses begin to speak
 What ignorance is cannot be argued over anymore
 It is too late for pleading white picket dreams
 Print you off, the shemps, the world is shrinking
 Rooted in a trivial concern, in interconnectedness
 In the need to make face and keep up
 And drown out the many voices within
 Imagine a culture that has, at its root
 A more soulful connection to land and to loved ones
 But I can hear the lie before you speak
 There is nothing but progress to eat
 And we are so fat and so hungry
 And the black wrists are cuffed in the pig van
 While the white shirt and tie in the tube car, distractional picture
 Pictures of beer and guilt about urges
 Sexual distrust and abandoned to nothingness
 Give me something I can nail myself to
 Give me a sharply-dressed talking head
 Who has something about them I trust and despise
 And what of it, anyway? These windows don't open
 They were designed to stay closed
 Shower, smoothie, coffee, commute
 Check the internet, never stop, never stop
 There is a scar on the soul of the world and it needs you to look
 The blood of the past is here, it remains
 The blood of the murders, the bodies like sacks leaking brain
 All stacked, chest aback on the planes, it remains
 To acknowledge without guilt, to accept without condition
 And to listen when other people tell you how you have behaved
 Truth is, it's for us to feel and be moved
 But I hear the clatter of bone against steel, it is coming
 It will not be stilled, it is there
 In the air, scorched white
 The reflection of sunlight on glass bouncing back into sunlight
 And glass bouncing back, industrialized
 Denial, business as usual
 So roll your eyes, shake your head, turn away and call me names
 I'm okay with that, too proud
 Unable to listen, we keep speaking
 Moted by blood, unable to notice ourselves
 Unable to stop and unwilling to learn