A poem inspired, to a degree, by the annual consumerism exhibition of the exploitation of the perpetual human need to attempt to fulfill the hole in their soul through the acquisition of more and more unneeded shit. Half off, of course.

My feelings are like
felines
That devour the totality of the truth of my being
Regurgitating things that feel like they’re lying
To my one true self
Still eye need
Still eye want
The seeds are sown, slowly groan
Guarded by the avant in poem

So my Friday is painted Black
Ammunition for my inhibitions
Seeking salvation on a shelf
Best Buy sells the best lies
50 inches on a flat screen encapsulates all my flat dreams
Time vampire, sucks me dry
Like my eye balls, getting blue balls trying to answer the
Call of Duty
Friday k(nights) the debutantes
A weak ends call of booty

Electronic stimu(lie) devours my hours,
My watch watches me spend my weak days dazed
All of my minutes made minute
Screens whores lead lives half baked and glazed

We all play the same game on our
Castrated Conscious-NES
Just a bunch of Donkeys
All we want are more Bananas
So we can all be Kings like Kong
The game is almost over, we have one more life
I’m sure this won’t take too long…

Television tells me visions and siphons my mind
Into its electrical circus of circuitry, I’m an elephant, blind
My brainwaves have been circumcised to fit the circumference of the circumstances
Corporations got us sucking cock, as they come all over our free(dumb), pissing on sacred dances

We are bound, shackled in chains to our cities
Locked up in cell (phones)
Searching for bars to connect us to the stars
But they dance on ABC, weekly…

Its all right if the truth is left out of my so called reality
And if my real I fails to discern all the fiction from the factions
Therefore lacking the potential for the birth of
A metaphysical , lyrical, spiritual revelation revealing
That the stars are the cosmic czars whose eternal luminescence is the very essence of our souls
Their existence is independent of our blind persistence of the notion that
Cosmetology > Cosmology

No-thing holds everything that we try so hopelessly hard to buy
Your soul has never been sold away, all you’ve bought was just a lie
Return the shit, and look inside
Your innerspeaker will tell you
all the things that
you can’t
find

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