Your Radical Ideas about Capitalism as a Method for Social Control Have Already Occurred to Others

I got a letter today
Posthumously
Post-humanly
Postage due
From God, Andy Worhol, my Dad, Marlboro Man, L. Ron Hubbard, Yul Brenner, Whoever
It said, “We’re kicking you out of the Borg.”
Well, I said, that’s nice. Lemme know when the paperwork is done
You see, it’s because I’m tired . . .
Of living
I’m tired of living a life measured out for me
In some type of spoon or another
Where I have two choices:
For death Against life

Thanks for making that decision for me, can you make some more.
What God(s)/Goddess(es) should I worship?
Tell me what I think is beautiful, make my only urge to sleep with random ______

I define beauty in my Love’s image,
An image of smiles, which we know will create lines,
As crow’s feet in perfect beaches.
Fossils in a volcano of happiness

I’m unwilling to redefine it into beauty as
An image of indifference,
Slack unconscious unaware
So, can you do it for me.
I like my women like I like my coffee, murky and bitter, single serving only
And I know that can’t be right!
Give me my women like I know I should like them, in a plastic cup,
Exchange quantity for quality.
I am Jack’s bisected sense of masculinity.
I am Jack’s subincised sense of humanity.

Whatever. I’m tired, I’m tired of doing comedy
I’m tired of you smiling with your heroin look of indifference
Lips slightly parted like a pinup girl
an impaled butterfly
Your smugness, your complacence.

And I’m tired of you asking me what am I doing in your store,
I’m just trying to figure out what you’re selling.


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