Well, do you want to expedite the process of weeding out
or swim in the river of doubt and stay in your shell?
Something new to conquer:
do it and you’ve done it.
Perpetuate my hyper-motivation to con the procrastination
out of fucking around inside of masturbation
Punk glue-head meditation on all the rites of passage the journals and visuals speak.
All the truth of lifting up the weight. It’s the struggle. Then muscle.
To the spoils, go the meek.
Feed the machine the oil to
Send the word through ‘’zines and lit stages
Strong coffee to fuel lofty ambition of a youthful tradition
it bleeds as it rages:
me and the ages.
It’s in an arena of madonna, prima.
Making out. White cells hot, ignoring adema.
To quench a thirst for continued rebirth.
It’s a story of to-date-undiscovered talent and worth.
Never relent. Never abort.
There was an obstacle
spider-sense knew to contort.
A battleship to sink.
On the ink in the skin they have a new sin to report.
Not a strange thing to be obsessed with a sport,
but absence of the word makes the heart grow worse.
There’s no curse, angel or demon.
Our tongues are terse
minds so sharp, we’re bleeding.
Chemicals are your piper, leading
to brooding and breeding
and premature retreating.
I tried to deny my need for intimacy, security, maturity,
education, copulation, concentration,
reliable transportation and communication.
I want you.
To stop the “sit and stare.”
Struggling for some breathing room that’s paid-for.
Steal the air.
Revolution here is rare.
– MIKE PHELAN O’TOOLE
C. 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.