A Fake

Why teach?
No one’s listening
They’re just waiting for words
So they can decide whether they’re going to be Dr. House
Or that kid in the back
And they’ll carry all the books they want everyone to know they read

They want to be suffragette mini boss goddesses
Rustic visionaries with minds like your favorite cigarettes
Quirky concierges of a lap dog ingenuity
That licks their empty embroidered palms
As they regurgitate their ornate subversive gospel
So fucking rad, I tell you!
Basking in our awe
Perpetually pregnant with innovative perspectives
Like they fucked every book in the library
(But with more reverb)

They chuck abstractions and proofs
Into the dark
Over their shoulders
And we’ll gather the crumbs
Of our vicarious individuality
So terribly special are we
Who have those to teach us what is special


They’ll assemble a punch drunk canon
Of high brow assertions of guilt
And we’ll get all Pentecostal
Whenever Ben Gibbard falls asleep on a synthesizer

When they humbly walk on our heads
Having read less of the Bible than Christians, even
We’ll try to peak at the letters they are writing
To a God they tell us is too dormant to be real
(Actually I think they just hate the idea
Of someone else being smart enough
To fuck with them)
They’ll tell us to think that we shouldn’t let anyone tell us what to think
And we’ll fall soothingly asleep
Little birds in a bed sheet dark

You can’t teach an old dog nuclear secrets
What does that even mean?
I don’t know
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