The hair on the tip of my pen
is sending out telegrams
to the punctuation of this sentence,
trying to find a point
to justify my end.
Little children teach rodents
the fragile mechanics of pavement,
(selling lies to jungle gymnastics,
trading greedy cards to dying clowns,
ashamed of insulin).
The chant of marching kids,
flat vibrations of youth decay,
echoes through these hills -
like glass screams
in the corpse of morning:
"Hey, look at me! I'm ugly!
I'm ugly! Look at me!"
We've overpopulated the moon,
and today has become a new holiday
for us to make a profit off.
We're multiplying like rabbits,
cutting in and out of traffic
on the retro fad of scooters.
My eyes are blank canvas,
where black noise bounces
off my pupils in sonic waves.
My lack of interest in words
can be traced back
to my fascination with scissors
and their effect on the public.
Ambition sells for quite a price.
The effort goes for twice as much
on eBay.
