A Fleeting Stream of Consciousness

What is there we have to lose in this emptiness,
When nothing is left in the barren terrain,
everything is spoiled with the paucity of ideas.
The gun, the blood, the lust, the avarice, the drugs,
the stinking resilience bind the consciousness.
The supermen and jungle warriors
of fucking politics and lousy economics;
The marching bands
of gun-toting spin doctors have razed
the reluctant sprouts in the jam,
the matériel of messy legit masters
merely miff the mob and trigger mayhem.
Old men lie bleeding
with syringes and guns and debts
whilst antsy mothers cried for their lost kids.
The lost kids burgeon
in the labyrinth
of pesky geography and nagging history,
consume in the theatre of the absurd.
Casting the vote for the tricksters in each ghetto,
paying off the elected tricksters
to bring a smile on their wives' puckered visage.
And in a flash
they lie bleeding
with the syringes and the guns and the debts.
Fight for the freedom
whilst we sing the redemption song;
Fight for the money
they think it's their legacy
whilst the hoi polloi gallop
hell-bent for leather to make both ends meet;
Fight for the land
in the plains and the hills
whilst we nosedive into the pit of a jerkwater notion;
Fight for the prestige
our great ancestors had renounced
for the sake of race and religion and power
whilst crooked regimes unwind in the catbird seat.
This is the calamity of nothingness.
This is the nadir of a society.
This is the end of a history.
I choose not to persist
The fleeting stream of consciousness
I choose to believe in my free will.