Meat Market, Part 1

And there it is, the everyday
fumbling of our sparse
lives, repetitive
echo of dysfunction
like history and its natural
humanness full of blood
and the shadowed
disgrace of trading
lives for economy. Truth is,
living is
a euphemism for work suffer
scrape and murder
your inner savage heart
leaping around its bleeding cage
on the marbled steps
of your fairytale
dogmatic duty to democracy.
Living is
the sound of sucking
your soul away,
making fat the Wall
street meat market purgatory.
Stack high the bones of dignity.
Your rusted hopes mortar the walls
of the ivory tower that pisses on you,
towering over your cowered head
while you pray for tax breaks
from a broken system
that broke your ba(n)ck.

Meat Market, Part 2

What be history but the
narrative of a planet's obituary?
The evidence conspiring against
powerless masses who yearn
only to live for themselves.
History's thousand year shackle
bonds us to duties and
dowries owed to
them masters who
grant us graces enough
to be a pittance of
existence, as if
they so kind
to let you wallow in
shit and cut
you to the bone
when you need
the meat, but
you far removed from that source,
that necessary umbilical cord of life.
Your mother's planetary breast.

What?
History?
Footnote of circumstance
pointing to primal circumcision,
the excision
of your dependence
upon the land supplanted
by the smooth
talking feeding hands of
emperor king pope president
sucking on a silver
spoon: feeding you bullshit, you
chew your educational cud,
take it like bitter pills and wash your brain
white like a lily, colorless
like lies.

Meat Market, Part 3

We, born free to die,
born to serve the
market, make meat
out of your soul.

Perhaps we prefer
this ignorance. Monotone
suffering, invisible
crushing weight.
History plagues
us.

How fast can you
run, how far
before you stumble
out of breath
and history's hounds catch up,
returning you to
your economic prison?
Them fuckers got it
figured, drown you
in mortgaged loan
debt or crush
you under
sidewalks and a chalk outline of
the american dream. Foreclose
your life, forfeit
your rights for the bills
stacking up,
amend your accounts, render them
deficient. We
prefer this train of meat
pulling into the station,
that cable channel
that is easier than
poking holes in your arms.
Being a media junkie, that
is obviously more acceptable.

Freedom of speech, that
be the opiate
needle numbing
all opinions milky clouded
and we OD on confusion
but think we're getting high.
Democracy
can be like that.

Meat Market, Part 4

Demonstrable monstrosity, cancer's
autocratic democracy kisses your
gullible lips, invading innocence's anus.
Oh yes, they fuck you
like the assclowns on the pornographic
soapbox overflowing with infected organs,
campaign donors falling overboard.
Maybe I could throw myself
into the sea and weep to death.
The tears don't come after all
is said and done; polls in peril as we
analyze our cosmic suicide--oh how
the lesser of two evils remains
greater than the goodness of truth's
singularity.

Still..
what remains of remnants once filled
with spirit? Myopia of anger--we cannot
muster a call to arms big enough
to hug any real hope--misplaced hostility
bankrupted our hospitality
toward salvation's anarchy.

Maybe it was evil old god's will we
raped the planet and sired this
civilized cannibalism, capital's right to life.
And Earth ain't nothing but a welfare queen
single mother freeloading off the sun
and other cosmic socialist drivel.

Meat Market, Part 5

Pledge of allegiance. Handkerchief flag
burning on waves of grief.
One nation under god:  papa has a stiff one
and he likes to strut his stuff
proud on parade and petting his
bastard children.
Is there a difference between the preacher
and them hybrid elephant asses? Maybe
we could just watch the jesus tv news channels
and get our politics mixed up
with religion. Two
thousand year old fairy tales.

Meat Market, Part 6

See them campaign to win the pageant,
the beauty contest of the world's most
unassailable idiot in the worlds' most
unassailable idiocracy.  Win or lose
they still mumble (all too audibly)
about god blessing these
you-knighted states
  !  ?  !  ?
Ask folks in Baghdad about those blessings.
Ask folks in Afghanistan about those blessings.
What do folk in Hiroshima think about blessings?
Bronx Watts South Philly very blessed with
all that blessing. Shit.
Very least, they're not blessed with
the miracle of Pine Ridge and
other reservation utopias.

[b.less] and [beLief]
but can we not read these words?
B-less because there's a lie in the middle
of this forfeiture of intelligence.

Meat Market, Part 7

There is something
inside us, decrepit
hanging loosely the
tongue of some dead words.
We the shame of children
left finding silently
directions and lesser
thoughts of marrow,
it pries into the bones
of hardened brains.
Rivers where birds
left straggling their trees
unfruited to sweeter lies.
The stench of governments.
The nauseous governed.

What flesh they mince
within this skin of transparence,
they cloud the eyes
and murder parades the street.
Shit of pigeons.
Clowns or gods--did we create?--
the dead voted for life
with vetoed blood
and winter drowning.
These, clowns or forms
for gods to unfulfill, deny
truth at all costs.
Paid for with blood.
Lazy diseases.
Your naked is.
Flame of unheat.
Bare down clenched
and toil your bone.

Lies all. Belief.
Picnic basket full,
panicked cacophony
of holidays insidious like seasonal
hell, economic index discards
you. Your meat on the shelf.
You.
Rattlesnakes in the throat
dead skin cannot shed.
And how you dance!

{the band plays a cold waltz
frozen to history's long rapsheet}

Clowns, gods, no circus
to cage the elephant
and the colossal shit
that stinks like democracy.