Reality is random, probably

It's all connected, the paranoid know a little of what is going on
Hair do Kim snuffs it while the throngs weep invalid
Europe gets fucked off by the dead empire
I dreamt of Richard Nixon, mate of Mao, enemy of cancer
Vinyl makes another comeback as the record stores close
The spacemen land and demand to see the manager
Mails go unanswered, I've done something wrong
ex-wives find love and despair, measures equal
Wives of the now laugh and a bell rings, perfumed mornings
Crisp packet like bed sheets betray the wanker who slept before
Talent shows on magic lanterns make me violent
Drugs keep the calm anger ripe and ready to fall from the brain tree
Whisky still burns my throat, single malt indigestion
The nerves of the new year and the spatter of hopeless hope
The waking tendril arms of deja vu slap listlessly upon cheeks red
New watches, family entertainment system for the single man
The dead christmas tree turns all lord of the ringy in my nightmare
bauble covered skeletal despair filling the post christmas night
And still Kim Jong's hair looks like one bong too many
Family traits, follicle, insane.
I wonder why,why I am writing
to whom I am writing and then it dawns
the crack in the sky the opening mind eye
to you obviously, it's the why defeats me
alongside the meaning.