Split w/Cácory

you cannot know what the next morning brings
and as far as i’m concerned, there’s no other way
my mind is a winding road and that’s good enough for me
wouldn’t be as exciting to know where it ends
have no need for power,
since without it I can see clearly
how it spoils the human nature,
slowly creeping into thoughts,
luring the meek and the crooked
into its clutches
I want to keep my own responsibility
guide my own actions
without any loopholes to askew my path

the treehouses have been abandoned for a while now
and the kites simply cannot loosen their ropes and fly
we keep replacing old treasure with new trash
leaving our past behind like memorabilia,
forgetting it and losing our edge
rust is chewing on our strings and there’s no one to dance
no one to listen to these songs either
our flame has already been put out
and we’d rather forget than think,
rather mock than understand
paths are getting covered in shrubs
and pale shadows are walking away
through the dusk
and the snow will come soon

it’s easy to agree or not to see the mechanics of society
as easy as to let the others decide about your future
the edge between private and public somehow degenerates
might as well identify with TV actors to feel special
how many times have you thought about escape
while they mortgaged the hell out of you
and you can’t afford to lose that job you hate anyway
there’s no time to live, blood and sweat turned into money
living by the payment schedule from the cradle to the grave
why would I live my life by these rules
I have a mind of my own, a mouth to speak,
eyes to see and ears to hear what you have to say

I love taking strolls in the dirt of underground gutters
down there I can feel the breeze of knowledge
and what’s life about if not the searching
sometimes I fall face down into mud, but often there’d be ideas far more pure than the pure ones have preached.

Don’t see why I should continue walking in someone else’s footsteps
or try to make a name for myself in the career structure freakshow
no need to listen to sunday morning church fairytales
it’s far better to read between the lines
no need for any god or country, quit nodding instead of questioning no use to linger in one place, just keep going forward everyone’s their own master an I don’t intend it any other way I just continue on my own with no signs of weakening

the big brother didn’t spawn on his own
his back is watched by his gigantic mother
a perfect relationship, a great harmony
without any arguments
every single day, flocks of sheep
give sacrifices on their altars
of no real value – just bits of lives
and when the time arises,
a scapegoat is chosen
for the crowd to tear apart
et voila, problem solved
a recurrent scheme from time immemorial
we feed our butchers and feel so glad
order must prevail, after all it lets us
build our own cage and a fence around it

light the bonfires and get busy ’round the totem
with witches and their brooms and the dancing leprechauns
pass the devils‘ booze to see them laughing
this isn’t hell, just a soirée of undesirables
among them we praise the ancient freedom
drums are rolling and wine is pouring
bandits, outcasts and rebels sparked this fire
and the chains of authority get shattered

come on, brothers, let’s party hard
all the banks and governments will burn down in our minds
come on, sisters,
dogmas and prejudices will be gone with the smoke
in the shadow of the state and darkness of the night
is where the most courageous dreams are born
as soon as the moon shows our dreams their way out
of the dark we will know our revenge is about

torn patches, dirty music
punk fanzines, DIY ethics
gigs, demos, critical thinking
abolishing borders, garbage sorting
tapes, records, lyrics and comments
stuff put out at own expenses
distros and fairs, anarchist leaflets
pogo, mosh, stagediving, volume at 11
police harassment, nazi attacks
spraying the walls and fighting back
late nights and sleepy mornings
trips far away, alone or with bandmates
vegan cuisine, squatting, home improvement
treasure to be found in the dumpsters and cans
a course of food, instead of bombs
zapatista coffee, a smell of harmony

can’t replant a wild poppy – can’t tame a wild soul
can’t pretend a small enclosure is as good as vast plains
won’t trade my love for money nor sell out my ideals
rather saddle up the wind, fly away and leave my cage to rust behind

as far as I can
or maybe a little further
’cause dumpsters are also filled
with abandoned dreams
as far as I can
as far as I can
as far as I can
move forward in my own right

they built a wall so we wouldn’t see
shot their weapons so we wouldn’t hear
the screams of pain, shame and humiliation
in the largest prison under the sun
built a wall so we wouldn’t see
what’s happening behind and now
they’ve opened fire to deafen our ears
so we wouldn’t hear
terrified families being run from their homes
and roaring engines of heavy machinery
burying all hopes and memories
so we wouldn’t see the desperation
checkpoint lines and recollections
about a hell on earth in people’s eyes
another day in occupied territories
land confiscations
and violent repopulating
bullying of natives
and marking them as terrorists

rain of bombs is pouring on this miserable land
soaking blood instead of water
fear is the only thing you can see
another day in life of Gaza strip

war crimes, death and torture
civil victims, gruesome injuries
soul scars, shattered skin
painful memories of the ones now lost
cities in ruins, families torn apart
the innocent always suffer the most
then neocolonialism kicks in
and someone’s power trip takes over
arms production gains from pain
still, no money brings you back from death
war is the sweetest business
and its revenue fuels more war cries

the best-dressed men do the dirtiest work
got their hands in everyone’s pies
greed is the sole motivation
and morals would keep the accounts in the red
this is just another song against arms race
a silly haiku that doesn’t change a thing
songs are played and people are killed

mass blindness and mind paralysis
fight complicated problems with simple solutions
self-appointed barroom race war militia
and the status quo architects can pat their own backs

concrete block brains and hearts of faint steel
big hands and clumsy words
frustration melted into slogans
that weigh like crosses to bear
from bad to worse
to nightmare scenarios
revisionism and clichés end up in crusades
and all those out of step end up in chains
and death camps