1 Saved for an expiration date, we the intervals Maladroit, hands like drunken tarantulas Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot Frame by frame, we stumble through Our garden of idols Crock me on Cargill, hit me with Harvard Juice me on Johnson and Johnson Buzz my brain on Bank of America Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot I'm a Ford endowment cooked in a spoon Dog-waggerizing superintention, scooping Evanescent appetites onto chocolate waffle cones I, a factory farm, you, a studio He/her She/him, a therapeutic intervention Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot 2 Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot That was me, then? Enlightened, brand loyal Politically active, gym-fit, engaged as a sprocket I ate, I shit, I sang along, and wanked And all were obediently distracted . . . I was A Fubble, an open pit mine, a dividend Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot I was . . . You are . . . He/her She/him is And shall be electronic apparitions Broken and peeled like yum-jumbo eggs Palpitant corpuscles humming and halting Surging and sucking like a formless aphrodisiac Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot Logistical life is lived on the clock Make it and break it and panic on cue Grant us O new gods headway and novelty For this vain race against fleshy obsolescence Electrify our communion with textual ephemera Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot We cry out to you, O liberators of dispassion Sustain me O priesthood, anesthetize my eyes And nudge me, budge me away from apostasy How dare I suffer, how dare I wait How dare those chuds refuse to respond to me Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot Children of the new gods, saved by efficiency Bestest and fastest and interwebcastest We shuddered in busted cold caverns of ether Of meanings abandoned like so much shit Make me a flame, make us a spectacle Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot I thirst, please grant me one dram of attention Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot 3 Smell me like milk, that date doesn't matter Some vicious prick hung that clock in my room My eyes boil in a vat of perfumed fluorescence My neck sour as mustard, my stomach tender as a boil Tickey-tackety-peck-dot-dot I am money and money and money again and At last a tazed soul belled across dreaming monitors "Are you a donor?" she asks, pen-poised like larkspur Tickety-tackety-whiskey-whackety Pickety-packety-peck-dot-dot . . . dot-dot . . . . . .
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