A bag is thrown over your head as a kid
To keep germs and ideas from tunneling in
Yet you're stubbing your double-joint foot on your shin
Does no one care to know?
That you take the elevator to your invisible jet
And it's not nearly fast enough but it's as fast as they get
And let's get out the camera when you take your first shit
And relive it in a year.
When you're feeling like your love is just a surrogate child
When your diseases win the walkathon and smirk in their stride
When artificial lighting burns a hole through the night
Does no one know to care?
About your sense of belonging to an underground cult
Toasting your health with your head in the smoke
And if the children of the world can find joy from a coke
Can we mass-produce that here?
Another million shrink-wrapped happy meal treats
Another million matches on the fuse in the East
Another million bankers with nothing to eat
But their stomachs full of dimes
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
The Joy of Coke
Spicy
Showing off your tonsils at the mouth of hell.
Tree and tinsel eat out your landfill.
In all angles, we love light but fuck pigment.
And there's a difference because your seventh-grade girlfriend told you so while she was sighing with experience.
And there's no difference because you no longer believe in variety as a prerequisite to existence.
Life is spicy enough and artificially flavored to taste like it's telling you secrets behind its fronts.
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