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The Medium is the Massage

We're patients under care of these hip gyrations;
this sexy disease left us for dead and over-fed by a system we once controlled,
with a world that we learned to know shaped in our heads,
like a casket made out of gold burying the things we should know: How connections are made and grievances paid.
It's no mistake how intentions are changed and emotions named... It's no mistake.
Lie still, cheap thrills are pleasing.
Lie still, the will's in season;
it finds us under this debris, blue with a cause, climbing just to breathe, left us for dead.
It's no excuse, not justifying what's been done by tallying the pros and cons,
just that we lose humanity, failing to learn from history, bandwidth, and burns.

We've been fucked over and up and it's Election Day in this new, modern slum that's been built in the hearts and minds of Americans,
where broken homes and leading tones shaped by innate controls leave us waiting, complacent, for that appeasing cadence.
There's no appeasing cadence.