Great Big Beautiful Fucked up World

Everyday the news is a masterpiece of disaster and we are agony’s audience,
But the news is really just some guy in the back room with a typewriter and a
toothache,
Days build upon the bulk of eons to turn this moment rendered,
And we in the stagnate orbit of the now end up waiting in impotent homage to
living.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.
Life pulsating; undulating and syncopating to the context of the rhythm and the
speed of change, Laying foundation for a new church and some hands-of-god
maniac just wants to blow it up, Those demonic pedestrians who traffic in fear
want to shake the unknown into existence,
For as many reasons as there are gods we bury the dead.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.
The grass gets no greener only the money followed by the apocalypse engine,
In the garden of a ghetto dogwoods paint the pink of poverty against the riches
of the sky, Evening and morning oscillate nervously it’s god shadow he’s pacing
the floor of the heavens, War-babies nursed on the slaughter tap the foot to
the banging drum.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.
Agents of April work their cruelty; decay the working essence of the mechanism,
A beauty-beyond; a tangle of woe-born worlds and working parts collide and
caress,
Mankind’s ditch like a war-wound on the pacific and proud bread of earth,
White noise of routine pandemonium jams the silent signals of ascetic angels.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.
A voice singing of itself in the enthusiasm and wonder of this mandate of song,
Yet but a child to these ancient ancestors of matter; myth; life and the great
blank of time,
As able to implode as an unworkable model as to take the crown as glory of all
glories,
The exhaust of the enterprise of the idiot hours dissipates the tangible
oneness.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.