Fat and disgusting,
the manatee eats and *****
with endangered grace.

Choreographed fits
awaken society
to its slow decline.

Politicians race
to win the seat but forget
how to act like men.

Why isn't there a
sociopath filter built
into the system?

The fool talks and the wise man listens.  
Is it wise to warn one who will not listen?  
A waste of breath, caught by death?  
The menacing figure inhales our woes
And breathes out weapons
With which we use to
Mutilate ourselves.
Television.
Television.
Now the wise men talk
While the fools all listen.

I had a talk with a fetus today.  
A mind talk.  
I wasn’t aware of such an ability
Until I encountered this incubating sapient sapien.  
We talked in a language consisting of feelings and emotions –
No trace of an actual language;
No words.  
He conveyed warmth.  
Mind numbing warmth and happiness.  
Mind enhancing.
Mind glowing.  
Life glowing.  
Radiant joy ran down my legs
And down through my feet,
Straight into the ground.  
Into the Earth.  
The planet then sighed a mighty sigh of great relief,
Somehow knowing that this child had been born.

Take me away to an island of pain
Where I can strip naked and dance in the acid rain.
Clouds of monoxide, trees of barbed wire,
I climb high and inhale then jump into the fire.
When the skin has been burned and/or irritated
I look into the mirror and feel slightly degraded.
I'm just a masochistic misfit feeling ritualistic,
Painting pictures with the knife which I slit my own wrist with.

Screaming Spades Scare Spastic Diamonds,
Clumsy Clubs Carefuly Cut the Deck,
Horrible Hearts Hum Hymns from Hell
With the Jokers and Jacks, where the Demons Dwell.
Twos and Threes Tear Through the Trees
While Fours and Fives Flail Franticly,
Free Falling From Far-Fetched Facilities.
Six and Seven Slowly Sufficate
As Evil Eights Eradicate Everything on Earth.
Nasty Nines Need Narcotics and ****** for
Terrorizing Tens Tendorizing Tremendous Tributaries
Feeding the Fifty Five Forrests of Fargoth

He goes to work at six and drinks his coffee black.  Flavor plays a role in this man’s life as much as trees play a role to fish.  Tributaries of loneliness and depression flow into the river that is his life; and his river flows into a deep sea of sorrow.  Dead to himself, John sips his bitter breakfast as he checks the morning emails.  One stands out among the rest from sender Happy the Clown.  He blankly stares at it until he finally wakes from his surprised stupor and clicks it.  Children yelling--loud whistles--people shouting with joy and happiness about what appears to be nothing.  Finally, Happy the Clown pops on the screen with a Grand Canyon smile, wild yellow hair and a nose that Rudolph would envy.  This was too much.  John never got out of his chair that day.  He died—eyes glued to the screen—forever listening to the joyous cries of children—forever staring at the dancing clown of death.

Hey you,

In your cubicle-

You havin’ fun yet?

When’s the last time you seen a decent sunset?

When’s the last time you noticed something beautiful?

Through those hazy - glazed eyes

Rendered by your cubicle?