Monday, December 20, 2010

Working Day (from no walking it back)

So that the acculturated Cherokee breathes
As the aforementioned men go off in open air

To be entertained, to evade the footpads
Vandals and thieves

Unclimbable steeps
A mass of white haired sheep

Their restless education
Fingers bent back to claws

As hours condensed and bred fears
In those freed yet unable to sell their freedom

Each compelled to each – to follow steam
Empowered in the fibre of a plant

A factory squares with no theory
At first utopian the second suburb

Cloaks and escapes
Made for its mall – croquet dogs

Each factory acts to consume
A miraculous mile of shops

A symphonic time-sink that ditched
And drains humanity

Unsatisfied work each night when sex
Labors to produce its spring

Winter's seasonal
Whose Friday night gains encamped

In overheated huddles
Adrift in faulty definition where farce repeats

Each word unclear as spectacle charts
The sandwiched female lungs

Disarmed by law, pirates
Repackage Jeffrey Daumer’s flesh

They embrace the false history of fine talk
But every mouse has a moral view

The most angered Author answers all things
No friend of commerce, Handicraft

Divines what's conquered
We trend toward unconditional cries or laughter

Despite protests to the contrary
Lazy enthusiasts trapped in economic circumstance

The miller's bandit after the thresh
400 years of unmastered debt

To eat the higher proportion of wages
One extorts one’s hired portion

Quick sleep in the famished sea
I worked over at Pottery Barn and perished instantly

Wedgewood’s factotum at fever’s pitch
The porcelain habit yields no place to piss

Enforced through history
Best intentions emerged in relays

Batons passed where knowledge enacts
Little machines – somatic fire drills

Let's call her princess for
A little bird one day was king

I don't know where he lives
The devil in deed a good person

God is that dog
Fought last week and lost

Lifeless haunts in the dark
No specter, no shadow, no chance

The little circle jerk of a citizen
The mini-series which fails to minister

Miseries naturally scarce
Left in short air

The cheese-man smiles as profit advanced itself
The food stuffs of the Gila monster

Stretched to include all persons
And corruption of the shameless parts

Each product seeks the powers of commerce
Forced participation in a market adequate to the new

Each mode feeds what
Sinks or swims in labor pools

Hot tubs of adulterated fact
Whose primary law demands increased production

Profit is borne out of the day's divide
That divines a hour of rest, to salt ones wound

Silence lapsed in the din of a listless ship
Yes, moments are elements of profit

But the nation needs strong warriors
Not diminished specimens of gelatinous mush

Parasites in the folds that lack all extremity
And unmediated mass of shit

Forget the story of who I was
I sold my soul

Rethinking the consumption of lost time
Let’s feed the rich or erase them

Little lords and vassals who made the pencil possible
To account our endless hours of distress

No comments: