1256 WORDS IN 20 MINUTES JUST SKIP IMMEDIATELY TO THE COMMENTS, Metaphore is a sex tape.

THE GLUTTONY OF BANKRUPTCY
How many story’s told once before, need to be heard more and more. until the gag line makes sense to them who send their lives in a state of repent? We glorify not the food plated but how much can we shove down the gluttonous city’s palate and in ratings return we find that food is our enemy, man versus food, and food wins, the tag line is we have enough to make a 300 pound hamburger from a 200 pound cow while in Africa people are starving because no one finished the prized sandwich. Oh and we watch the wealth of them we say we despise but secretly envy with as we stroll through the lens in their 60 room mansions. Who needs a 60 room house when 45 of the rooms are bathrooms, we are that dirty? I had a motorhome once, it cost me more than a house with no wheels but nowhere near the two and a half million a top of the line 27 room 5 slide out 414 bathroom land yacht costs, oh the wonder of fitting fourteen feet under thirteen foot bridges. The tag line, you can own it on paper but the reality is it owns you. Land of the free and home of the brave don’t love me for me but fuck me senseless for all the things I can buy with other people’s money. The American way to stray from the story line of being satisfied with what you have earned and spurn the love of the riches of others but at the same time remember them poorer that you are poor because they are lazier, working dawn to dusk in fields picking the basic ingredients of a rich man’s wealth for pennies on the head.

Never to worry he’ll lend you two to pay Charon upon your death as long as the triple take interest is paid from what your field hand children make. I have met and loved a welfare queen, she ruled my soul with her handout food. All day long was Sunday never having to leave the bed only changing the sheets every eleven months was enough to make us feel clean and neat because work is a suckers game they play on television but don’t call it lotto fever. When my ship comes in, fuck God, I’m spending my six hundred dollars living in sin and then praying again for another three digits to land to me in a dream of wealth I know is there because I read it in a book, or more I had it read to me in that same book because I don’t know exactly what those shapes called letters mean other than someone is better off as a prestidigitator of hollow knowledge sold for two bucks fifty cent. Ringside seats are sold out day after day even for repeats. Because our mindless mass needs that mess to keep us lusting for what we don’t have but as long as we see it could be, we’ll never get off our ass and take it from them who took it from me out of my ass.

This is the beauty of a love poem, love in America is gluttony when you’re mired in poverty, even though you know you’ll never get a taste because them old government benefits only stretch far enough for a bottle of liquor and a bag of weed. I don’t blame the half of the crowd that say Jesus that looks like too hard of a hard job, because the other half that do it are getting robbed with piss poor pay for the work they do sacrificing their body day after day, like Jesus did, on a cross of sacrifice so at least few can have it very nice. We adore our fame, look at them who got wealth by fucking on tape, good girls mostly who no one ever knew their name until they had a face to the camera orgasm and now it’s all the junk in the trunk that makes it ok for a chick to have a dick in her ass but not a loving homosexual couple, that’s the tag line. Make your wealth on a leaked tape, you leaked because your parent didn’t have time for a real job or  worked as your pimp.

All the while forget the lame and forgo the gimp, fucking lazy ass fools never know they are the tag line in the wars on class between the rich and them that want to be. Garden grown wealth is not enough, it is only food on the table, not 6 pounds of bacon on that three hundred pound burger, mustard only please. As long as we have a minion of the poor to makes us feel good about how little we have left of a moral compass spinning out of control we’ll always know there’s nothing wrong with another dead little brown or black kid who was asleep and caught one in the head because the race to the top was simply a race to grab this year’s bumper crop pf sex fueled by drugs fueled by lust for money to buy that god damned three hundred pound hamburger no one gets to finish not even the dumpster divers because it stays under armed guard until the mother fucking trash truck comes to hydraulically lift it to places only maggots go.


And then we make more television cycles on the reproduction cycles (yes there are those sex tapes again) of blow fly’s that pester us so. Let those flying things live in peace as they overtake the human race and them of our brothers in need of a sip of water they can’t pay for, fuck ‘em. They know they can steal a bucket haul it from the nearest pond and boil it never noticing it be the place where the lotus grow. Beauty isn’t a flower majestic, beauty is what one can’t have except through a TV screen.

Makes me want to scream! WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH US WHEN WE’D RATHER A MAN DIE FOR OUR SINS THAN PAY FOR ANOTHER TO HAVE A BLANKET AND SOME SHELTER? “Nothing, not a God damned thing is wrong with us, all is as it is meant to be. I know because God told my pimp pastor so, who said if you want it take it, and get fame with a sex tape. Meet me in my rectumry after the service is over. We have some film to make”

And for the life left in me after all these years I still can’t figure out why we love and glory in gluttony and zeroes at the end of some manipulators check while them that work relax by watching what the earned being ridden to never recreation destination they’ll never see. Except for my welfare queen and me we don’t care we got by today because the good lord provided us another way to get high and look at all that nice to have shit, maybe if we quit this…naaaw fuck that! comeme’re baby and wrap your lips around my dick one more time and then lets finish this bowl of bong, I’ll bang your ass digitally after we buy a pawn shop camera and make us both rich, and if the tape won’t leak, to hell with it even in failure we both know the good life is getting a check for being poor.

© M Durfee

8.3.2014