The product 


We are told that the balance of life 
Is balanced…like the spine of a spoon 

And that it stirs a giant metal pot and conducts direction in a vacuum 

We are told that people both cannot live and do not act with kind intent 

And that the spoon must be carved all straight white while the thin metal suffers indents 

Whole journeys across the broth are carried by heat and so the flies 

May hover above the wealth of us and spread their wings but do not fly 

They just ride upon our anger, like bullriders, like a fleet of mimicking men 

Who flash bare arse red at us while walking to make us run instead   

And we thought we were the shocked onlooker or the obstructing wooden fence 

Which gets worn down by the heat of it all like the spoon which absorbs the sweats 

But no, amigo 

You are a western movie 

A pair of recycled pot ideals stirred by a woman with big boobies 

The woman is a cybernetic machine funded by McCoke, GoogleBay and Nikeapple 

While you, the sad fat man jogging to get a package, trip over your shoes with nothing but a glass phone to then grapple 

A conspiracy against their taste is just ironic 

As the fresh health of you is turned to shit and then tasted by flies, it’s  sardonic 

They say life’s a wooden spoon but I would rather be the pot 

As the flies are smelling something that the chef is clearly not 

I’d rather have my shit then stir it and the government tell me that that is not 

The way to be, cause I must see 

The red before the rot. 

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2 thoughts on “The product 

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