Friday, July 27, 2012
Internet routers and your beach parties
You have to be blind to not see it-
My Internet router crammed with puss
And sending out your name in the air- you you you you you you you- faster than the smoke swirls from my cigarette.
I am copying files to RapidShare, to show you something I made
But the SEND button is constipated (like your ears). I can’t get through you. We have an issue.
See, all those pirated dopeheads will tell me the same story.
They drawl the same tongue, they aren’t doing much to impress.
Their faces gleam against a neon screen
And Facebook tosses with the joint, their legs slower than my bass.
I am a butch. With a candy.
And you will have to speed up a bit.
Before that joint runs out, I want to tell you my story.
2. Maybe I envy the acrid beats humping your tongue right now.
I have chewed that drink, smelled that dope.
Heard guitar notes strumming through your earlobes
But sticking at one place for too long is not my thing,
Even if it comes with a joint longer than your dick.
Come out of that creaky room, out of the florescent lights, for a second.
I don’t have time for a lazy walk;
I am crashing into your universe, faster than you would understand this.
3. You think drinking a free holiday is trippy.
“Fuck the world, this all capitalistic bourgeois!”
Psychedelic rills out of our heads!
Let’s just be on the beach and chant for world peace. (I swear, I could puke right now).
So you light a Camel, order the finest chicken vindaloo you see,
Gulp some neat whiskey and tell me stories of your poverty.
But you are not the only one who is so real.
There are more of you, parked everywhere.
You all are cloned to function like that. You pay to look poor.
And I wasted this day cramming my Internet with- you you you you you you you.