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Thursday, May 26, 2011

Dinner With The Dionaea Muscipula

I walk into this old fashioned dream… hypnotic images on the wall…
All warm & fuzzies buzzing around, a carnation pinned to the lapel of life…
I walk down the hall watching the cathode shadows flicker with electric pulses…

pzaap…

pzaap…

Childhood nightmare luring me to adulthood…
My deadbeat dad prostrated by the 6 pack snooze in his underwear pig belly…
It’s vitriol lite…
Boredom in a surreal cartoon TV dinner life…
It looks like sustenance and comes in a nice shiny package,
But it’s burnt on the outside, cold in the middle and bland all the way through.

30 years later I have a date with deja vu at the Mayor’s party,
Ornate tapestries line sterile walls…
Fancy drinks in too small glasses…
Cigar smoke and politically correct lies…
This death is worse than all the others, less personal…
The after dinner talk can sentence men half my age to doom…
The bored girl gazes at me through all the polite conversations…
She reads me with blank eyes…
Am I a banker?.. am I a salesman?... am I a whore???
All that matters is that I’m money, or I wouldn’t be in this room…
But I am worse than any of those things,
because I’m in this room and I know I shouldn’t be…
I know its all wrong so I don’t eat the finger sandwiches,
but I drink the scotch and I hear the bullshit…
I ignore its consequences, so it’s wrong nonetheless…
I need the money, jack, so what am I to do, run, yell, beat my chest?
None of this will change a thing…
Screw it, I eat a finger sandwich…
Drink enough scotch and you long for finger sandwiches…

What do I care of consequence, of mistakes, what do I care at all?
Maybe that’s why they make 4 year terms with 2 term maximums,
Because if you stick around any longer,
There won’t be enough scotch in the world to make you hungry again.