Pure Shame Manifesto in HD

Was it a catalyst for
the manufacture?
Was it that your eyes
were dripping--
dripping onto the windowsill,
as I nudged slugs closer
to an ever certain reckoning.

Was it harmless
or prostitution and shame?
Was it the shape of a gullet
built to swallow anything
or simply the coincidence
within the configuration
of a standard, modern keyboard?

Too many numbers jostling themselves.
Too many words screaming to scramble themselves into existence.
Too many politics to fashion a functional rhetoric,
something that sounds
and acts as if it is sane.

an oligarchy characterized by witty t-shirts
built a house of sandwiches
shifting restlessly
in the scenic of the sand.

And the poets congratulate themselves,
like dogs licking their balls.
And the poets shake hands
with the rocks they've collected,
whispering truculent secrets
to varying wavelengths of light.

There was a dawn once,
and now the static on the television
rings in our ears.
shimmying restlessly like a bum,
(on the edge of the vision)
there were parentheses and hills,
shambling and staggered
like tear drops dripping,
dripping onto the windowsill.

Was it just the catalyst
for the manufacture of a theme?

Truncated resolution
and thoughts strung like straw dummies
across the horizon.
And there were harvest songs
And there were stories told.
Forever afterwards (happily ever after),
and the all the jargon
that seethes in the fairytales.

And then synthesizers and shotguns
were ringing in the future
And the hairy arms of man
entangled themselves
in an overwhelming cascade of technology.
(they had created things for themselves)

They wore skin tight leather suits
and were told to be fabulous
so they were fabulous
and wore skin tight leather suits.

They used words like
'truculent' and 'oligarchy'
they drank whiskey
and molested taste into extinction.