The Plague
The great plague of our time
has enveloped us discreetly:
Not bubonic, though our immune systems falter;
not pneumonic, though we hack in smoggy air;
not septicemic, though plaque clogs our arteries;
but catatonic, infecting our minds,
an epidemic of aimless leisure,
as the local shaman mixes soma elixirs
and insists you'll be just fine.
The rats don't hide under floorboards
or congregate in damp cellars.
They snuggle in our pocket lint
and we take them out to stroke their bellies
as they tell us hypnotic stories:
Of heroes in sports cars driving
big breasted women crazy
in love with a shining knuckle
sandwich of 100% beef
up with this shark fin powder
snow just fell grab your board
dumb is curable for a fee
males strong, no read
ding ding, notification pops
pimples are a disease, need cream
sickle and hammer bad signs
by M. Night Shyamalan now streaming
tears in a tub of iced
coffee sweet like every kiss
begins with Kay Kay Kay
disguised as jingoist pride
and prejudice with zombies is a must see
this new study says meat
heads will roll in next week's
pass by so live in the moment
airy bliss just do it
was scary, can't sleep, need pill
oh baby hump me with your virtual
currency strong buy clothes
line long shop online
meme culture earwigs
multiply and divide
right from left.
Catatonic.
Bigwigs whisper in ears of earwigs
concealed in fur while rats distract.
They scuttle up arms, necks, and cheeks,
spelunking past lobes to feast on earwax;
pincers pruning out chunks of cortex,
snuggling in grey matter nests to direct
desires, views, ambitions, goals
while we drool, eyes dilated.
And all that ever trickles down
is blood from myriad lobes.
