Lotsa Shit Sucks

Corporate, Responsibility.

On the face of convoluted myths
of anal retention, frighteous beseeching
is the lead seal of good housekeeping.
Just about time to get real,
whatever that means.

Swinging in a late summer hammock
of blindfolds, drinking our beer cold,
brewed from content, we stir,
maybe, at the smell of Plan B: one man
might wrinkle his nose and look
askance, setting down the newspaper
with a nasty whiff, looking
at your ass and frowning, while you
break down and cry
at the sound of drums
only dogs hear,
barking
a warning, an irritation.

Voices from the penthouse window
throw curses,
but dogs don’t give a shit.

My neurologist
never wanted to be bothered
with pain or therapy. But here’s the hurt:
Invisible.
Eating your bones from within.
So he quits with the news
and chants to the radio gods
around a great big bonfire.
They all scratch their asses
at the same time - beautiful
choreography, if you have the stomach for it,
naked fat men
howling at a fat hairy moon.

Just when I think of a clever response,
the hairy ass gods,
crawling out from under their rock, gilded
and born from windy proclamation,
published, you know,
plans to grow everything
from guns to the miraculous war,
what fixes all manner of woe,
from ragheads to the spotted owl
to the stockholders’ dividend.

Shit, they done us in.
They got a plan for the century!
Me thinking
I’m so fucking clever.
They done us in. So yeah, this sucks,
lotsa shit sucks, stop crying
about stuff that sucks.

Corporate, Responsibility.
War to take the heat off
boardroom scandals.
Corporate, Responsibility. OOOOhhhh.

I get it now.