Death in the Suburbs: The Remixed Remix

“Canadian dream, why are you so distant?
I cry to you from the balcony of my elephant…”

Shove my debit card in
And throw my dough in the bin.
Cause it’s what I eat
When I sit in defeat,
Staring at a pile of paper
That I got back after
Some underpaid man
With no future plan
Other than to sit on his ass
In some stuffy class
Read my shit
And let it hit
My overall grade.
B Minus.
Well, what happened to the Canadian dream?
Cause as far as I can see it sure as hell seems
That papa died for something
That sure as hell seems like nothing.
Worked his nine to five
To keep his family alive
But his nine to five
Sure hasn’t helped me survive
When men in suits
And hundred dollar boots
Take my money
And promise me
That school after school
Will take my inner fool
And make him a boss.
My loss.
“What a trap,” papa screams behind his grave.
But papa, you were brave.
Death in the suburbs.

By: Dominic Lindl


Eyes (Dissipation of Grand Illusions, Part III)

You’ve seen me scared: empty, alone.
You’ve been there when I’m on my own.
You took my hands, moved them.
You took my plans, proved them
As false;

I have to get back.

You stole my eyes, stole marriage’s surprise.
You took my mind, changed the kind
Of things I think of; I can never un-see
What you’ve shown me.
And some days I don’t want to.

I was a child, you a storm.
Made me wild, deformed.
You were a beast,
I was your feast;
Fed on me like a parasite.
Raped my eyes.

Porno, how you’ve got a hold on me.
Porno, you never told me
It would be this way.
Porno, I gave it all for you:
My time, my mind, my soul too.
Porno, what a real woman wants
Isn’t what you’ve shown me, but that haunts
My every thought.

I need to get back.

Every woman I meet
Is an object, something to defeat,
Something to abuse, something to use.
We treat them like toys.
It’s normal; boys will be boys.
Never men, because we’re boys.
But boys will one day die,
And have to look in the eyes
Of the women they objectified.
I’m terrified.

Porno, I’m never going back,
Am I?

Thoughts of a Dying Dog (Dissipation of Grand Illusions, Part II)

It was on this same fateful and glorious day,
Though Time in its majesty will soon take my breath away,
That I was not long ago galloping through the roadways
With joy in my heart and the sun pouring out its rays.

But then it came, in full flight:
A monstrous beast with great might.
Barrelling, screeching, flying past,
Yet I, realizing the beast’s challenge, would not come last.
Yes, the great marathon-battle would gloriously end
Only when the wheeled beast would bend
Its will to mine.

But lo! an ally of the demon, now disarrayed,
Flew with furious speed to my nemesis’ aid,
Hollering so loudly it was terrible to behold.
But I, like a brilliant, majestic steed of old
Put my head down and charged ahead without fright.
No, I did not go gentle into that good night.

Our heads collided, our bodies shook.
How erroneous, those demons of the road when they mistook
Me for a mere dog, how unaware of my heroic bravery;
For I would never succumb to fear and roadside slavery.
Away we flew, I to one side and it to the other,
The world itself in brilliant motion became but a blur.

So here I lie:
Mortally wounded and prepared to die.
Bones broken, skin ripped,
Resting in a sea of blood that has dripped
From my battered and scrambled head.

This glorious tale of heroic valor and interspecies tension
Is my last testament to those in need of my message of redemption.
Let us all take to the road against the demons that haunt us,
Against their allies and their minions who taunt us.
For this thought, that I can look back and say that I battled well,
That I sent those fiery bastards back to the depths of hell,
Gives meaning to my passing.

But that, though it is an idea most comforting to me,
Does not eradicate my nagging doubts nor indeed the possibility
That I am, after all, just some evolutionarily produced, stupid animal
Who chases cars with tongue a-wagging and brains that are so very minimal.

Yea, I certainly am a fool.
For who lies needlessly in a pool
Of his own blood
And did not bring the tidal flood
Of carnage upon himself?

Mother-dog, I never ceased to love you.
But damn you, and father-dog too,
For conceiving an idiot such as I.
In idiocy I was born, and in idiocy I do die.

So it began and now it ends.

Sunday School Said (Dissipation of Grand Illusions, Part I)

Month 1

With everything I’m worth I know,
Though I’d never be able to show,
She’s the one.
So hell, we’ll run
And get it over with.
White dress,
And I do confess
That I’ll love her forthwith.

And there’s no need to worry.
Cause Sunday school always said
In marriage we’d be one,
I’d find her and the problems would be done,
We’d be perfect till we were dead.

Month 6

Maybe I’ve lied to her, did something wrong,
But my love for her is still ever so strong,
And those girls mean nothing.
The only woman that I’d tightly cling
When times get rough is her.
See, I told her they’re just on a screen,
They’re fake and they’d never have to be seen
By anyone but me; never by her.

And I’m not worried.
Cause Sunday school always said
In marriage we’d be one,
I’d find her and the problems would be done,
We’d be perfect till we were dead.

Month 12

Maybe I’ve hit her, but it’s not really me, it’s the stress.
Yeah, it’s coming in from all sides but I do confess
That I’m finding it hard to love her still.
Most days she sits by the window sill
And won’t say a damn thing.
But I don’t see why she’s so upset.
We’ve got a house and a big television set,
But she says it’s all hanging on a string.

And I’m beginning to worry,
Even though Sunday school always said
In marriage we’d be one,
I’d find her and the problems would be done,
We’d be perfect till we were dead.

Year 6

Six years and we’ve got nothing to show,
Nothing but two kids that I don’t know.
What a joke, that my best friend is a dog,
While my family is vintage, been put in a catalogue
For us to flip through when we reminisce.
And now my fist follows the moon and sun:
Up and down, but with every new season I’m still not done.
Haven’t touched my wife in months, but she doesn’t miss
Me; we don’t exist.

But Sunday school always said
In marriage we’d be one,
I’d find her and the problem would be done,
We’d be perfect till we were dead.

Well, we were never perfect and now we’re dead.

By: Dominic Lindl

Nation of First World Messiahs

Now isn’t it strange?

I heard Kanye got asked to get married at the mall,
But you know I’d never crawl for his ball.
Cause A.
I’m not gay,
And B.
He’s gonna die and see
That he’s overpriced.
Hell, he’s not Jesus Christ,
Though he’s believed it more times
Than Kim’s gotten married to dimes.

Now isn’t that strange?

But this is North America.
So shut your mouth and pick a
Celebrity to believe in,
Cause the bible’s too heavy to breathe in.
Plus we can’t even read.
All we do is breed.
Except we kinda don’t, cause we all wear rubbers
To prevent ourselves from becoming fathers and mothers.

Now isn’t that strange?

Yeah, we accept every invitation
To get down in this nation.
Cause if Drake raps it out
Then we just have to act it out,
Don’t we?
Cause only Messiahs live on TV.
Messiahs that set us free
From doubts that say we can be
Away from our screens and still happy.

So there.

By: Dominic Lindl 

Dank Rhymes

They said, “the wordier the better,
But make them words lighter than a feather.
Cause if they come crashin’ down
Like a ton of bricks we gonna come crashin’ round”.
I didn’t understand it
But they did backhand it
So I said, “yeah I’ll do it”.
But I couldn’t see through it.
Didn’t get what they meant,
Didn’t get a single cent
But I did it.

So these rhymes is dank –
Danker than a castle cellar tank
Where the king used to keep his royal wine
Which he’d sip when his royal queen did decide to whine
And piss him the hell off.
Guess all married men get the froth
From their wives’ angry mouths every day
When things don’t go their wives’ angry way.
Guess that’s life and you can’t stop that,
But these rhymes is dank and you can’t top that.

So there.

By: Dominic Lindl