Poke and prod with swollen atennae.
Another piece of rot lies upon my table.
Kin and acquaintances conspire while I eat my meal;
They'll canabalize my heart; I know they will.
This exoskeleton continues to snap under pressure,
The masters grab the adhesive, "Please take our blessin's."
And then I work.
I work as the crippled horse as he's flogged again,
I feast on the grease I scrape from the hands of better men.
Six appendiges will form to one callus.
One callus individual, so indoctinated in "blue collar" rituals,
My calm appears as malice,
My calm is steeled madness.
I swim in the pesticides the shopkeep stocks so cheaply,
Yet I am a thrifty spender.
Two for one,
And a nother for good measure.
Three numbs pleasure, so I can't fathom the pain,
Four to drown thoughts, and I'm back at it again.
Lose time, lose face.
Lose the embrace of a placed called home.
Decadence awaits, if I can slither on this mattress.
Then work.
Work like a gortesque marionette,
Like a puppet strung along by hands that never rest.
But who gives a fuck?
I'm just another insect.
