Angst

By the splintering twilight
Through the evoking of thought
Stands the truth of emotion
That congeals, as a clot.
With the blood of my memory
Ebbing through a landscape
As abstract as Picasso
Maps out my escape.
If I diversify my economy
And concentrate my assets
Will I profit from the enmity
Once reserved for the Bassetts?
Love - 15, darling Carling.
Here I am standing
Surrounded by snippets of various
And sundry poetics
Yet none of them will fit.
Perhaps this is what happens
When my thoughts stand unused
Rusting, in a field of bygone standards
Like the cemetery where rest
The ghosts of aircraft past.
Working 8:30 to five
I can't handle this jive
Evolving? Transmogrifying
Into a Yuppie - Zombie
-I feel dead- Where stands
The thought process?
How the hell did I get into this mess?
Wake up, go to work, come home, sleep
Wake up, go to work, come home, sleep
Monotony, routine
Far too tired to check out the "scene"
What the fuck does it all mean?
I am a Yuppie zombie
Catching the subway train
Grab another Globe & Mail
To electrify my brain
Look, the stocks are rising,
But the dollar fails
The prisoners are revolting
In the country's jails. 
Suppose there was
A magical emulsifier
That I could use on this,
Everything.
Frustration - there's no deviation
I want to "do my own thing"
Too bad I don't have the talent to sing.
Pointless pontification
And flaccid masturbation
Sorry, son, you wont find a release around here.
Is there anybody who hears me
Would they promise not to trick me
Out of the promise of my youth
Can they give a little truth
To the dreams that I have had -
Were they really all that bad?
I don't know
Let me go home.
Does anybody here remember
The Gord's Zone?
It's pumpin ---
Isn't it ironic
Don't you think it's neat
That the best time you ever had
Was when you really didn't
Care where your next meal
Was coming from?
You were too busy having fun
Enjoying life - everyday
A brand new adventure.
Grow you, you child!
You're how old? Look at you,
What have you accomplished?
You haven't met up to our standards yet
I think that makes you a failure
What good are your written words
If they don't pay the bills?
Get a life, buddy!
Conform, or else you won't succeed
You have to play the game, and
We've made up the rules.
I guess if you're a winner,
You essentially lose.
But at least you have nice shoes.
And so with a wry smile
I'll plod on every mile
To whatever end this road may lead
And though I hurt, and I bleed
I'll do my best to meet the need
This society may have of me.
While knowing inside
My hope hasn't died
It's just been postponed for a while.