Conflicted Peasant

Brilliant minds are beginning to surface on the sea of peasantry;
we can't have that now, can we.
Original thought without the subtle guidance of a mechanical curriculum will only create havoc in our beloved technocracy.
Inspire the artist to conceive television utopias in a blink of attention deficiency.
Eye candy drugs dripping from radio wave orgies of consumption.
In the silence of their eyes plant vicarious deception.
Holden Caulfield's goddam phonies f*****g jazz while supporting our troops.
Bleed the land, murder the individual, and fill my tank with unleaded intellect.
Nothing here to save us, our savior found in nothingness.
The perfect midnight yantra is the navel of a diva floating on the frost ridden plain of our primordial hunting ground.
Four great arms to hold us and chisel out our infinite cosmic void.
We never quite appreciate the keepers of the light.
In my mind is the key, but the key is housed in silence, and I'm afraid of death which dwells inside her... she who knows our fate.
Sex becomes more violent with existence dipped in war; the rhythm more cathartic; each thrust a parley with perdition.
Please don't let them know how I feel.
Don't let them know I'm not DOWN.
They can't realize I'm capable of expression.
I've lived up to their expectations of an isolated maniac,
so I've been recruited to guard Plato's perfect city;
and of course, I have mouths to feed.