Вы находитесь на странице: 1из 1

Death Support System (Poetry Reading) I confine myself in a crowded cage filled w/ Death-Worshipping Machines.

They constantly suck on Deaths little white dicks while conveniently putting $$$$$ in the collection plate at the corner quickie shopAutomatons passionately embracing their murderers. Feeling nothing, I close my eyes and grimace w/o pain, ignoring the necrophilic stench of their breaths while they fill the funeral urns with their own ashes. And I cannot weep. A robotic claw-like hand rams itself into my anus, reaches deep inside, clutching my dead heart, pumping rancid fluid through my rotting veins. *Pump pump Pump pump Pump pump* It wont let me die in peace. A large fat cellulite-filled sack of butchered meat wobbles itself over my facea gigantic sweaty disembodied ass that spreads its cheeks over my blank staring face and farts into my lungs, inflating them rhythmically w/ methane, hydrogen, amines, and sulfides. Acrid fumes sting my already blind eyes, never meant to see anyway. Snorting Crystal Drano to clear my sewer mind, scraped out and laid on the table before the autopsy even begins. A car battery w/ jumper cables neatly attached. 6-V spasms simulate animated life. Animated animosity for all. Sewer mind, never mind, never-never minde, never-never lande, animae-shunned. Movie theatre seats one. Sit behind and watch what I C U. Sitting there. Rehearsing. Concerned only with your performance, you missed the funeral while giving God a hand-job in the limousine hearse. Re-hearse. All these rusty needle-pens found in the gutters and hospital dumpsters plugged in, injecting sugar water, caffeine, vitamins, synthetic feelings, and thrift-store-bought 2nd-hand emotions. Soda pop corn? Snuff porn? And the occasional hallucination Hallulu-ya. Sin. Nation. This is my death, my artificial life, my Sleeping Beauty crystal see-thru coffin. These things are here before us. These things are you. I suppose theyre art.