by Cliff Beck.
We live the dream in a land where things are not what they seem;
where the here and now is discarded for a sacred cow;
a future sold in a sequence of seductive social memes
which the panopticon uses to accuse, judge and abuse
if we can’t afford it, or try to refuse.
To live the dream is to grieve when the fantasies we receive
tantalise then vaporise before our very eyes
as the paint blisters and cracks on the dream home,
the dream car rusts and the dream holiday that’s a must
ends in hangovers, flight delays and a credit card that’s bust.
But the dream merchants still peddle illusions of future bliss
which delusions of self-respect insist we must not resist
and so we juggle jobs, part time gigs,
overdrafts, and childminding kids;
money, mind and body all overspent in futile attempts
to acquire the chimera of implanted desire.
Then a ball slips through fatigued fingers,
followed by another, and another.
Devastated, enervated we give up, throwing away the lot:
and guess what;
the birds still sing, wedding bells ring, children are born
and we‘re freed from belief in unicorns.