the world is flat
Ladies and gentlemen, direct your attention,
a device with importance we hardly need mention.
It pounces, parades, jockeys and jettisons,
slamming doors locking the salesman in.
Ubiquitous treats, circuitous streets,
ruinous, torturous, squeezing your eyes
in a glass vice of lies, a dark church of vice
painting a portrait of flypaper flies.
Observe in its wiles how it teasingly tries
to invoke your libido, (that is its credo).
Enticing with icing, always surprising,
a mistake that’s carving your mind like a cake!
The spirit retreats from calamitous curs, from jackboots and spurs, conducting the herds, calling the heifers, we all follow after, chewing our grass in the glass of disaster.
Like magic show puppets, or bodies of hide
we come alive for the hand that reaches inside,
massaging our organs with dexterous fingers
engenders malaise, and ennui lingers.
Narcotic mantra, a skeletal dancer,
a wasteland of glass, an orchard of ash,
a Cyclops that snatches at kids as they pass.
Admen sold on the yellow brick road, paving our old and flaccid, acid-fed minds of tin and hay, and Dorothy’s come-hither so invitingly fey, her pucker pink with the promise of power so we shower in poppy dust hour by hour. Relaxing, non-taxing, creatively blasting our freewill to ruins, our language to jargon.
A bargain you say? It’s free, I agree.
Though cable’s enabled the rise of the fee.
The flickering channels beckon us all
to a circus of mirthless and stalled bacchanals.
Listen my children and you shall hear of the white noise of fear, the cries of despair. They call it programming, don’t you agree? A robot can’t walk without a decree.
So what’ll it be my delicious confections, the charming erection who won the election? Or perhaps just the rantings of temporal thieves, spitting up morphine, stealing our dreams, our faces awash in a glowing collision fattened like pigs, lobotomized citizens.
The choices are few but pay them their due,
for coffers were spent to give you the cue.
And like wine from the grape, with teeth
at our nape, we’ve all come to gape
at the mass mind rape.
But...for those who believe that lying is wrong, that hearts still beat strong in the light of the sun, the choice is still yours, the day is still young, the meadows still green, the rivers still run, awaiting you all in the kingdom of nature. Can you still hear the call from your living room pasture?
The door’s within reach
You’ve still got your hands
Your fidgeting feet still obey your commands.
Your coma subsides, you’ve found out you’re alive! Will you waste one more day in your living room hive?
The clock has stopped ticking
The door’s open wide
From The Opulence Of Invention. Copyright © 2018 E. P. Mattson, All Rights Reserved.