This is the auditorium of modern movements,
A breeding ground for light speed profit thinking,
Where a biting shine exposes the possibilities of the flesh,
And the direction of the green flow.

This is the city of Soma - an idea brought to life
And carefully designed by George Reed.

Founding member of Modern Architects Deluxe,
"Constructing a new world for speed, efficiency and streamlined income"

So you're climbing upwards through structures of metal and glass,
Subconsciously trying to reach the roof, but somehow there's always one more floor,
It's a strange mixture of soft thinking and hard work,
Or was it the other way around?
The ground for comparison was trampled a long time ago,
So no one really knows anymore,
Amidst this aimless craving for matter.

Accelerating darkness,
Designer light,
Iron constructions, concrete and wood,
Flaring light echoing consumer minds.

Mountains are only future sand,
Forests are only unreleased heat,
Darkened glasses kill dirty rays,
Handbags weighed down with asphalt dust.

Thought process standardized,
Philosophy a set of guidelines for inefficiency,
Religion a fluffy cushion of synthetic feathers.

Life itself a mechanical movement from A to B,
C is always a thought but never an option.

The cycle of life speeds up like a rabid biker,
Getting narrower for every turn,
Its silver tail not as shiny as it was,
The colossal width only paper thin,
Acceleration beyond light and darkness,
Welcome to the modern museum of life,
A strobe-like feeling of universal consequence.

The rate of change of velocity,
Merely a tool to make us see,
That no one can stand as still,
In such a speed as we always will.

Warm relations turn down the heat,
Dust is everywhere, all mouths are dry,
This is my nest - I'll defend it with my life.

Cosmological consequences of not relating,
Connections cut, no restrictions necessary,
Yesterday, today, tomorrow.

A Song For D. Incorporated,
They sent me an invoice ,
"P&S to be returned to D. Incorporated within the date of"
So I gave them a call.
An angry one.

9-113-451208

I said: "Why are you invoicing me?"
I heard whispers and slow breathing,
"I never made a purchase from you, so stop bothering me."
The whispering stopped. The sound of hot air sustained,
"I demand an explanation"
All went silent, and the phone seemed to get heavier,
A deep voice in the other end of the line:

They sent me an invoice
"P&S to be returned to D. Incorporated within the date of"
So I gave them a call.
An angry one.

9-113-451208

"It's not yours, you lease it,
It's not yours, you lease it"

"Please be kind and return it to us,
Within the date stated on the invoice,
Or we will have to come and claim it by force."

"It's not yours, you lease it,
It's not yours, you lease it"

I found it hidden in the very core of the city,
The building didn't do it justice, but then again no building would,
The office door ajar and the letters D.I. on everything.

It was empty when I arrived but the thick, damp air told me,
That someone had been there only minutes ago.

The room was painted in different shades of green,
All matching the colour of the flow,
And the interior, Spartan as it was, seemed to,
Underline the fact that this company was all about.

Control, direction and blatant satisfaction.

I saw invoices everywhere, and a thick mahogany table,
Covered with yellowed pieces of paper - they were lists, and it finally occurred to me,
This was an administrative center for the P&S of our modern world,
Such a fetid web of pretence!

It lay in the bottom of an old ashtray,
Yellow and worn as the others, but somehow different.
Two dates - one I knew and one I didn't.
Both were passed, the second one very recently.
I lifted the paper, folded it and slid it into my back pocket,
Then I left.

Fundamental change - turn the direction of the breeze by force,
Crank it up to a storm
Of the breeze by force,
Crank it up to a storm.

Coloured flashes never burned my eyes,
The way the dirty sun does,
On my way from the office,
Through streets of bleached light,
It came to me that what I had to do was,
To find the main flow and obstruct it,
It came to me that what I had to do was,
To find the main flow and obstruct it.

So I went to the cathedral.
Nick-A was at the turntables as always,
The fans were already dancing like madmen.

So I went to the cathedral.
Nick-A was at the turntables as always,
The fans were already dancing like madmen,
To the pulsating beat.
It had a cashier-like quality.

A soundtrack working in verdant direction,
Mr. A kept chasing the flow with an ever-increasing BPM,
As the audience exchanged movements,
Bargaining for moves and grooves,
Until power restrictions were enforced,
And the BPM sunk like a stone.

Coloured flashes never burned my eyes,
The way the dirty sun does,
On my way from the office,
Through streets of bleached light,
It came to me that what I had to do was,
To find the main flow and obstruct it,
It came to me that what I had to do was,
To find the main flow and obstruct it.

So I went to the cathedral.
Nick-A was at the turntables,
The dancers were left in despair - discontented,
It was rumoured that some of them chose the red exit.

Found the core to stop the flow,
No obstruction, green pierces everything.

I have been washed.

Now the errors and faults are a blur,
See the glass under my feet and the reflection above,
It has all come to this:
My view to the left and to the right has been lost.

Something is blocking it,
To help me focus on what is important,
For it and for them,
I have been eaten by dirty blocks of concrete,
And concept-paper,
But in the end,
As I was sliding brutally through the system,
The whole feeling of being digested turned out to be
Nothing more that the feather-soft caresses of a juggernaut world.

"P&S to be returned to..."
I guess it's all set.

So it has come to this,
Measuring the distance,
Between this world and mine.

It has been done!
The return is completed!
Now to grow fainter,
To be buried in soft shades of jade.

I used to like the rainfalls - to feel tender bites,
Of grey city water on my white, clean face,
Pure from the start - dirty to the end,
Drawing diagonal marks - shutting me into a private prison with bars of water on skin.

The smell of wet asphalt always softened up a hard world,
90 degree angles,
Shiny surfaces covered in dirt.

And worn out streets leading from nothing to nothing,
Who put us here anyway?
Did I ever take the time to find out?
Did they ever bother to ask?
Was it even an option?
It's been returned.
I wonder if the dirt has forced its way through my skin by now.

Feels like it's there - itching from the inside, weakening my flesh,
I need a sunblock or a dirtblock - something to protect me,
Nothing's ever gonna be the same again.
I'm on the wrong...surface.

Nothing's ever gonna be the same again,
Nothing's ever gonna be the same again.

Open up the shell, wash away the facade,
Let me out or let me in.

Open up the shell, wash away the facade,
Let me out or let me in.

Please just let me,
Please just let me,
Please just let me,
Please just let me.

I no longer know if I am mad,
Or if I'm feigning it to cover my own mediocrity,
I sometimes feel like a fell wizened necromancer,
Labouring at his pleasure,
Performing his liturgy as one long consumed by ashes.

Factory fumes nourishing the dreams of the cosmopolite,
Affectionate longing for white coats, auditoriums and blackboard dust,
Spiraling walkways, webs of concrete, bricks and mirrored glass,
I no longer know if I have experienced passion/love/despair/hate,
Was it only socially induced behaviour?
Like long forgotten twisted poetry,
Gleaned from mouldy parchment.

Pain is always more real than bliss,
It's in greater supply,
It's the warm familiar womb in which your mind can hide,
As your open doors and portals,
Walk the paved paths to offerings,
Foiled predetermined neurological patterns,
Like paper boats bound for the drains,
You speak the incantations written on grey mortal walls,
Syllables tasting like blood in your mouth,
You know absolution,
You know mortality.

Reality slowly peeled layer by layer,
Outwards to the fringe where upon the altar of forgotten deities,
The combustion of the self still vibrates,
Dark flowers thrusting their thorns up,
Reaching where manifestations of the skies labour to fill the vacuum,
You seek to explain the universe with numbers,
Itch to fill in the final answer underlined twice,
Like an infant you step into the first light at dawn,
It's bright and bitter and sharp.

Somehow still here,
Under the surface,
Beyond the invoices and D. Inc.
Outside the system.

I have never seen past the paper fortifications,
So I have my doubts,
But still, that nagging prospect,
Of all this being fabricated,
False,
Calculated,
Consumes me in all its green splendour,
But it doesn't touch.

Alluring and tempting, the shine and the flow,
Runs straight through me,
Now not even sensing my presence,
But I can see it, I can see it if I close my eyes,
I can break through the paper shine,
And reach the core, the true core,
Jade, Emerald.

Never defeated and never will be,
But exposed for everyone to see,
How can it still accelerate
When the fuel is gone?