MANIFESTO by Mad Pirvan

Tonight´s banquet welcomes us to sin and calls forth the failure of reason´s ways:

Angelic like Satan, born in a paradigm of dreams and fears

Creatures of the night, beat revenants, dazzling drama queers

Chaos embellished with the stylism of faraway days.

And while the rest celebrate hate, we just celebrate, contemplate, mutate our mental state,

The first right of mankind lying in weight , the escapism of imagery;

In the climate of the New Fascism

The miscaried Children of Consumerism

Transcending the bounderies of their misery

Dreaming that they´re free.

Trying to be free.

We don´t want to play the game

We don´t need to be the same

But not playing the game makes us loose anyway.

Passive protest against the system does not become revolution

It´s ceasing  your power, half-open file for the tower

A new world is a new mind

Instead of worshiping an echo

Rise from the blind and the resigned to be your own world´s architect

And the things you design should defy all laws with the splendour of the incorrect,

History´s just some mixed up layers of fiction with reality anyway.

We just die away in the society if we disobey anyway.

A vertical flight from the sky into the inconcrete´s abyss;

If this is the Apocalypse going on

they never mentioned it would have twerk music in the background.

Lacking political projection of the underground

Missinformed lunatics waltz around in Cyperspace

And race in likes and happiness

The narrow face of  hyperreality in an omniscient

Cyberspace the new practical god in this cold age

Death is just a latent state variable in a life of dosed rage

Sweet simple world of quintesential promise of prevailing wage

We are what we spend our Money on

no longer citizens,  merely consumers

Milenial Serial Losers.

Disoriented souls lacking of great mentors.

barely spectators in this rocambulesque play.

dark drunkenness of dreamers disposing of the liberty of speech,

But no cause to fight for

or what to say and why

say it, anyway,

Everything was forever, now´s out of reach

while still they  pray to the emptiness provided by the spectre of religion.

Now  beauty and grace  shine bright in the torture chamber of this algorythm

Versifying dirt into the raw rhytm of the night with rymes of danger

Amputated spirits  looking for the uncomfort of change,

The dare to doubt and disobey

Future has no sense if it repeats itself.

At long last the forgotten trumpets for battle  direct the play.

History´s just some mixed up reality anyway.

Not playing the game makes us loose anyway.

So with the mystical hands of an iconoclast rewrite the play.

A new world is a new mind,

Instead of worshiping an echo

Rise

to be your own world´s architect

and let the things you design defy all laws with the splendour of the imperfect.