Saturday, January 26, 2013

The Jingle of the Jangle, Dangling Noosed Man of Manacles.

what work , duty, or responsibility you attempt to shirk today
is just the burden, placed upon the backs the children of tomorrow
if you can justify your indolence, simply place your neck in a noose
and feel the weight of your own body dangling from the banisters
this is the burden you are trying to place upon the future of the world
take inventory of all things you consume in a day, all resources and money
in your own inability, attempt to provide these things for another for free,
feel the pressure of people like yourselves, feel your own weight
should you feel entitled, so sit in the traincar where people have such titles
look at those who have the same titular factual nomenclature as you.
see what this entitlement demands, and see what comes about from such
hateful, berating, ignorant, and idle hands, doing nothing, fingers so fat
as to not even preserve the capacity or ability to grip something
no tools or even a stick, for this is no longer a human, now simply
the same exact utility of a burlap sack, with the ability to make resources
disappear, and never provide even insight as to their motives
this is your gluttony america, incestuous white rapists spawning
litters of inbred mentally deranged and physically fallacious disgust
taking and consuming raw resources, food, water, oil, and commodities
not as a humble man before the eyes of God, taking not but what he needs,
but consuming these, as a cancer does inside of an organism, with total disregard
of any life that surrounds it, consuming without question, without thought
instinctively taking a marvel of natural beauty, and defiling it with such pompous
cancerous hunger provoking nothing but waste, and rapidly exacerbating
it's own imminent death, damning itself, through its own actions,
eating away at it's own host organism, simply consuming and reproducing
without reason, without any organization, without any order, simply
amassing itself in a throbbing tumor called the American Consumer
producing nothing, taking the work of God, and abusing such cellular majesty
life decimating and self-consuming cancer, as a luddite fights to the death
with bear hands and but a knife, in the face of the industrial revolution
knowing for certain the inevitability of his own death, in the face of damnation

The strategy fight fire with fire, certainly could apply, for cancer no doubt breeds recklessly
and in doing so, brings nothing but more and more malignant cancer upon it's host body
Such is the case, and so should an economic cancer no doubt be validated by rational numbers
so shall carcinogens be lauded as God Incarnate, such fiscal tumors such as debt and interest
shall accrue themselves as cancer upon every intricacy of this malignant burden of waste

Should some man wish to avail society of such a cancer, i tell you, as man reared of chemicals,
spawn of societal negligence, and indifference, to chemical incontinence, the colorful manacles,
streaking my brain, when i cant afford to trip acid, i get high and watch rainbows in gasoline fumes in my mind, accruing the limited visibility of a foggy sea, vapors of leaden tranquility
my brain indifferent to such lead, for i know, it is just simply the weight in troy oz, that this
body is given the stipend of grain, and laudanum, for pain,  sullen drop rain we fail to catch,
for calculations based on BMI tell you that people who are underweight get fed first, and those who are overweight last, for there is indeed already food stored in that vacuole, stored as fat
if you say a man should burn his own timber he loosed from the woods of his own regard
say that he should no doubt as a lumberjack not mind a missing log off the wood pile
sir, should this man no doubt, give you this charity, for he has this availed to him by God,
and he gives this unto those in need, for he is kind, and a working man minds not working
simply because this man can whistle. It is no pay, nor yield, nor harvest, nor product, nor life,
that provokes and inspires this man to work, and produce from his pre-corpse the willful merit
of noble, kind and honorable men, and no doubt avail his own name and glory, and his society.

This man works in the fields, for no reason, other than to simply whistle, and should God avail
to this man or anybody, a time, place, or tempo, equally as lovely and humbly accepting of coy
whistling lips of  a man still that much bird enough to whistle through the woods, merrily
still in bright enough cheer and spirit to see nothing of illness stricken the world around him
simply alive to enjoy the sun, to whistle all the while, and work, solely for personal enjoyment.

Should God grant man a field where the same plow tills 8 rows simultaneously
driven by a lame, crippled donkey, working just as efficaciously as the ox.
The field spurts not simply fruits and vegetables, but all sorts of delectables
all luxury and silks, fine fabrics and gold, automobiles, gasoline, and coal

The working man would simply shake his head, and say unto God,
these are not the reason that I work, or fetch these trifles for my fellow man
Such a mind as thine, Hebrewdeus, should see i work to pass the time, that is all,
for a man with no maestro, could simply say, there is sadly, today, no show,
i say, but is the sickle not swinging, in time, tune, and tempo with my whistling
does the hammer not bring it's wrath down upon the earth, and dirt
as the Jungle Man, playing the Jungle Drum, is it not just as fun
sir i may not no much, but Lord, almighty, i do try to stay in touch
An a wise man say once, Whistle, whistle while you work
for it is those who you see dawdle, and bicker, and gripe,
who learned, but only to, trifle and berate, while they shirk
to sit idly, bantering, no different than a shuttered window
beating against a rickety olden days rustic cabin home
not of choice, free will, but simply because the wind does blow
saying not of but one thing, I am not free, but in slavery
as the weathered veined cock spins as fickle as he pleases
perched atop the barn, creaking as if the weathervane is
whipped as the enslaved negro is by the white man
this creaking metal cries shrieks of pain

These men, who say nothing, but just beat against the house, whichever way the winds blow
stirring about and simply beating a dead horse, berating a house with banter and ruckus
These clacking pallets of wood cackle as the Judges solemn gavel damning a  man to hang
In the Jingle Jangle Morning, manacled man incredulous to mourning, falling at his own failure
succumbed to wallowing in his own squalor, hearing the hooves of Satan's horses calling you
following you, murdering you, for these are silent hooves that beat not upon the dirt
nor echo as thunder in the sky, but these horses of the eternal flames of hell beat upon a man as
merciless, incessant, timekeeping, still ticking and self-damning as his own heartbeat,
For which odd man of flame, fucked warm blood into the lizards who roamed as kings
placed in mammals, such a painful manacle, the timepiece ticking away, sand grains in veins

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