Dribble and Dung

soul dead conformist
try to tell me what to think
flesh color platitudes
dissolve inside their invisible sinks

my attic is swept clean
the curtains are drawn
a black helicopter
has just landed on my yard

pinpricks of light
try to clear up the fog
but the vodka high
is still holding on

it’s a new dawn
unravel your smiles
and loosen your tongue
time to spill forth
some more dribble and dung

dead ants lay
on my windowsill
I torch their remains
with a hundred dollar bill

well, at least that's one less
our commercialized, mechanized society
will have to consume