You've been there before, it just hasn't happened yet.

I am what will be,
but not what has been.
And you don't remember what's yet to be seen.

Twisting through minutes and seconds and ticks,
looking your god in the eye.
Behind windows and hollow bars and graffiti and muck,
watching the world spinning by.

Now locked down in armchair of sickly dark green,
with blown-out pupils fixed on high-definition screen,
lighting smoke after smoke between drink after drink,
you've been here before,
don't remember,
just think.

It was there in conception and there in the sweat,
with the rhythmic thrusting of father's fuck,
it was decided before you could make your own luck.
Like a head or a tail,
destined to fail,
fifty-fifty prophecy written in semen.

Be it coffin or tomb,
be it cot, be it womb.
Be it treasure or trash,
be it love, be it gash.