Monday, June 7, 2010
Grafitti Your Soul
The world would graffiti your soul if it could;
Paint social mores, inside of your arms,
Sourcecode numbers, hidden deep in your being:
Country of origin, tattooed on the forehead,
Percentage of fat, blood type, racial slurs..
The world machine is a label-maker
Of epic size, and tireless duration;
From little yellow stars and red dots twixt the eyes,
To veils, and full seminal infiltration-
You must know that somewhere, there's a bulging file
With names of old girlfriends,
Forgotten sex acts, all time-and-date stamped,
Your prints in the font;
The resultant offsprings, and seedy abortions:
For every eye-blink costs the breeders more time.
They'd like for your pay, to reflect ocean life
Affected by too-long cellular calls;
And those Styrofoam cups, once dropped in the desert
Forty years back, which will surely outlive you;
By a million years- no, they haven't forgotten.