Adress

This house is more a mate for your dope drop-jawed gaze than it is a place for me or a shelter of comfort for you.
And I know it's the shoes and the hair you don't like because I've been in your rotten home before.
What I want is metal everywhere, steel-plated machinery, while I sit inside to make the soundtrack to the collapse of everything- just like that night
I was high on something. I wanted to walk around town and see nothing but old gutted-out warehouses about to fall down.
At least that would make you see the urgency of your state. This revolution that you speak of isn't locked away in a Crimpshire song and it's sure as hell not going to come from the top and trickle down.
And it will under absolutely no circumstances even be minutely advanced by scoffing at black shoes and black hair.
It's getting way past time for you to join the ranks of angular America, being driven mad by the persistent beeping of the bobcat and the rumble of the street drill.
Because I hate construction, but I know the people doing it hate it even more. And I think that's the seed of your problem. Inversely.
And once you realize that, you will either succumb or change. Which in some way brings us right back around to this blasted house. You either chirp or eat.
And I'm not talking about on your own dollar, because it's only your penny if you're living.
So next time please don't talk to me about some fanzine you're going to do because I've been hearing that bullshit for three years.
To make a real change, you go straight for direct action. And it will under absolutely no circumstances even be minutely advanced by scoffing at black shoes and black hair