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the empire of los angeles is great
The Empire of Los Angeles is great,
Because others believe our own misunderstandings.
And I just want to serve an emperor,
Even if it means subjugation,
Just to have an emperor to serve,
That’s what happens when you have no father.
And instinct mumbles to itself:
Consciousness is a poor substitute.
Poor substitutes aren’t looked down upon,
They are our emperors after all.
Our emperors after all aren’t so bad,
They look to us for leadership.
For leadership we want someone who will coddle us,
And the need to cuddle is too literal a want,
To express literally,
So we express only in whispers, like soft touches.
Lover’s touch,
In the hope that fucking will cure them.
The cured still have their diseases,
They just see the strength of suicide.
Suicide has never been a sin,
Only calling it suicide has been punishable.
The punishable have not been sinful;
Just willing to pick up the slack.
The slack doesn’t make it easier,
Just flabbier.
The flabbier is not excess,
It is who we are.
Who we are isn’t a culture,
It’s a pride.
Democracy means the whip is in our hands,
But the lash marks are still the same.
Still the same has nothing to do with inertia,
It means changing everything,
If it means conserving only a semblance.
Reality has been whored,
We love it only in other’s presences,
Our affections are reserved for its semblances.
Metaphors know about different meanings
And different meanings know
Metaphor confused them in the first place,
And in the first place we had it,
Even if we grew up without it.
