These bones they fuckin’ clink and crackle, smearing the mud about. Buried below are the programmed television past times, scratching at our too little, too lates. Technological daydream distractions swallow you up and spit you out in your mid-thirties.
The fear and urgency swells up to a rage – you realize the only skill set you’ve acquired is how not to drunk text your ex-girlfriend at four a.m. on a Monday morning. Your penniless fortune of plastic and steel, DVDs and mp3 players piled high in the corner, sold off by the pound at two percent of the original cost.
84 billion channels to watch and nothing’s on, but you watch anyway. Drooling your way through four-hour-long-variety-show-marathons where they spackle on the makeup, and everyone sounds like Christina Aguilera on methamphetamines…
Facebooking non-existent words in run-on sentences about your 3-D, Blu-Ray, laser-guided edition of the 2015 remake of “Encino Man.” You doze off on your computerized couch as your robotic cat malfunctions, sparks, and sets fire to your living room rug.
The firemen sit and watch as you crisp alive, because you forgot to pay a parking ticket from six years ago.
Go BOLDLY, fruitful friggin’ youth, and don’t forget to write your god damn congress man. As if the congress actually turned someone into a man... hallelujah! Jesus was born!
1 comment:
Love this. More please.
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