My friend Bebb says we've got 5 billion to go,
NO. SLOWER
Humans are slowing the astrological process.
The sun dresses me in childrens' clothes, overalls.
The moon shines translucently through 'em.
The Society Of the Concrete World Hegemony:
Built of the last bushes.
Hail the Kindling King-Queen!
Each sperm kinged at the other side of the checkerboard,
black and red they all run diagonal,
our new world has but its own blood to live off.
Auto-cannibalism: reuse, recycle, revenge.
I took a cleaver with me and I only use the edge.
My eyes are now glass balls of president nether-meat,
crystallized with plastic kingly crowned rubbish.
You'll find me and your cousin,
hashing a bath in the sink with old vitamin water--
bottled in bottled water bottles, stoppered with towels.
Everyone smells
like kelp-dog vagina sweat on fusty spongiform
leanin' toward the sky like dickweed in the mornin sun.
The parasites have a life of their own, floatin'
their own on top of lives to live, not living on
eels but thriving on steel flesh,
android diseases
licking the herpied mouth of my digital brain cave.
Our paintings return to these hovel's walls,
each bro groveling over philosophical cannibals.
Fine art reads the instructions to the toaster
Simple pastries are chef made.
Pop-Tarts are my food everyday.
1 comment:
Nice!
"reuse, recycle, revenge."
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