Thursday, December 20, 2007



Stoned, stoned, stoned, flying with the vultures buoyed by the thermals of bombs bursting in air by the dawn’s early light, puking the flesh of the child, banking and turning in a corkscrewed descent to tear the flesh of the unread and unwashed in a cultured and measured voice of reassurance that their torn flesh shall rise again on the third millennium in a fit-fuck of pro-pro-productivity amidst the cries of a hungry baby dying the tiny death of diseased redemption to the greater glory of the commoditized trash pit that sings its broken song of metastasized growth to the clatter of skeletons scavenging metal and glass from its fiery furnace to build altars upon which burnt offerings of the dazed and confused are sent heavenward on a spiraling cloud of grease-besmucked smoke to masturbate the holy nostrils in three-quarter time while in the distant the cries and moans of the starving are soothed by the swish of paper coated with the wisdom words of the bean counters as they send their perfumed stench over the land proclaiming that all is well and the world is happy and at peace as shrapnel tears its flesh and anoints the desert sands with it blood, and, oh fuck, georgee, ain’t it great being half-dead and not giving a shit about tomorrow because we’ve got ours today…

your ad-d-mirer
whomever the fuck I chose to be today

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