There’s a sale on

Synthetic sweet syrup novacane,

Classic harbinger of

Seasonal celebrations.

Set your clocks by it.

The most accurate mark

Of the march of time.

Suck it down

So you can suck it up

A little longer.

Sugar keeps the sheep in line

And online.

Death of the human experience

All wrapped up in cellophane.

Global unhappiness,

The main corperate mission.

Trying any tricks to turn

The private altars of body temples

Into pure tax revenue.

Make our privileged pilgrimages

To Tequila Mountain.

Infernos are just another part

Of the equation.

There is no end to it.

(Or is there?

If you know, clue me in.)

Cycles of want and freedom

Fluster the signs at the

Burried Exhibitionist Networking Mausoleum.

Leaves loop-de-loop

As the world turns one more time.

The corpses dance in reanimated reply,

Guardians of the organic breeze

And all new life.

Watch and enjoy

As the crystal medicinals

Guide changing winds

For our worldly tribesmen.

I don’t create these accounts,

I’m merely a scribe.

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