The walls are spongy, here. They grew as coral does and now are appropriately bleached to death. On the wall is a crank which activates a window buster. Take a shot. Let out the smoke should the insurmountables cause your soul to set aflame. That’s how we burn them now.
My drug my Sweet keeps me pleased and discreet and how often have I thought, “Give me dope and distraction. Give me legal (e)lixir, suffocate my eyes in instant glamour. Fill the space between my thoughts, censor silence. Brand me so I can buy me.”
We’ve lost our bolts and we’re all screwed. Our capital is conceptual and made manifest by green flyers and cheap metal badges. The stars printed on them convince us of our decorated status. From mind to market, if there’s nothing on your table we say we know we assert that it’s because you simply lack the necessary funds of imagination. You can’t eat, because you lack imagination. And do we ever.
We lack the flyers and badges Man-Aged by the boy scouts. While we also bow to the girl scouts we look past their leadership and teamwork both, reminding them as we bow that it’s the cookies we’re after. That’s how we’ll anticipate them, that’s how we’ll remember them. “How about a picture boys, by the fire? And girls, how bout them cookies?”
And we blame them for our own morphing into morphine monkeys. Hit. Like. 2 hits. How many likes? Hit me. Like me. Hit me like hit me like hit me like it. The following generation will drown us in laughter and we’ll like it. We’ll feed like city pigeons on the hate medicine they toss at us, their old fools. Buckets of sensationalism will slop down and we will bark as fatted sea lions at the zoo. To be the attraction, to be the it, that’s what we wanted and we got it. We wished for what we were Care-Full.