As Much Freedom As

If only ashes had a voice of despair, I'd chew them in my mouth for stimulation
For a lovemaking suit of a severed tongue in a galactical parked van
Offering red balloons for bullet wounds and candle wax trails,
To hear the wisdom under an ultrasound radar,
Ravished and unspoken, tokened and traded Neptune philosophy,
I'd romanticize a thousand imaginary fantasies of the lost minds who offered their beings to the slag market.

Like the dance of the secret service and militarized brothels
Banging bedposts of Liberty barebacked, delighted,
I surf the hallways of corporate gardens,
Picking unbloomed fruits, the blossoms that burst in allergens,
Mysteriously swallowing the winters waiting to come around,
Alive and unsound in the old days of cable news.

A town of infected sheep sleeping soundly in mourning trees,
Tousled by humanitarian torpedoes aimed at the esophagus,
Routinely stripped searched in glass screens for a bad mix tape
Hidden in a desk draw full of break up junk
Floating on a firework powered bicycle, burning
As much freedom as a ridden dogtooth.

Pinched between the unwashed digits and cucumber sandwiches,
A factory of the classy and coldly unsatisfied and unsurprised,
Smiling a wave at pricey pins on coat hangers,
Stalking the money round-about in shady armor for sleep,
The price of sold souls sewed on slowed grandfather clocks,
Ticking their chimes backwards for a dreamed far-away venture of child nostalgia.

Remorse for Modern Art

Looking from the outside in, swallowing words into a vast ocean of meaningless garbage,
Picking apart what has not existed, only to frame what a simpleton can comprehend.
They shatter the art with their phlegm-brained elegies, for death is the cost of a published paper back-scratcher,
Petting political rants like a wet dog; a cat in heat that mews at the moonlight.

Coped with degrees of insecurity, though affirmed by their debts in communist Beatnik-wannabe gatherings
Around round tables topped with overpriced wine and lacking feasts, stumbling as if their process of mind was any clearer when sober.
So high strung in their store bought nooses, framed in their over-hanging eye wear;
Oh original, I see! None like the whores before your time, you be.

The cafes, now lost without cigarette smoke, now lost without the mad men, lost without troubles of real despair, without merit or purpose--
Harvesting rotten fruits from the flats of naive screamers, pocketing perfect polished papers of mouth-water.
No where do I belong with such death trap for a cover charge, no where shall I seat myself amongst the deaf and dumb,
For the Judge already exists in the soul, whether you bash him in the mouth with His own hammer or sidetrack Him with a little skin.

Fabricators of America

The Fabricators of America wove a cloth with their own spit and fecal matter, vomited stripes of pride and stars of suicide. The Fabricators raped and enslaved their own people for a fiat nightmare made up of little kids' dreams, who played in dirty needle alleyways, who licked lead painted walls, and drank from asbestos fountains. Those shape shifters with masks of a billion phrases that rhymed with change came to liquefy gold for blood, tore tectonic plates in halves and sky-wrote 666 grids in the suburbs.

The Fabricators of America sold careers with venture smiles with parsley stuck between their tooth-rots, gathered face-pages for terror watchers, fisted the international community with their grubby hand-plants. They washed the brains of the youth with arsenic and ammonia, slimed their way to ensure that more soldiers hung themselves for the evil the One-Eye commander. The Fabricators opened their corpse-purses and chucked pennies for bloodsheds hidden behind freedom propaganda kits for a uniform and necklace.

The Fabricators bombed the media and education system with white phosphorus, deforming the truth into a mailable glass that enclosed the public to turn to ignorance and hard drugs. They've routed the child traffic highway and commercial food industry, so that we were reminded who owns who. The Fabricators of America lusted for civil unrest, to weed out the rest and throw them into military prison camps that capped the unshepherded behind silver barbwire.

The Fabricators met on their ships, glowed with Luciferian rituals to praise their genetic modifications. Those who refused to be implanted were left to rot from point-blank rounds of poisonous darts; those that refused were cast in the dark pit of unworthy snake chambers. The Fabricators of America created a land that no one would understand from just a glimpse of a computer screen.