illusions of the mertic system

i guess this ends now;
the philistines have spoken.
they call for surrender,
from the balcony ramparts.
the cities will choke
on deep fried dreams,
their veins sting for petrol;
haircuts and labels.
the brightest of colours
the biggest of trucks.
we had stong resistance
and over-priced vodka.
the whores moan for love;
not money or drugs.
there's no serenades
when the philistines sing.
while the homeless feed
on the stares and the jeers.
these prophets are false,
they were already drunk.
so we don't leave house
then all screens attack,
we've messaged our votes
and purchased our tones.
the vices stay hidden
in the perfume of pages.
these headphones are armour
not pedestals or masks.
we weren't subscribed
but the philistines called
they have our number;
we're on speed dial now.