Flesh Pretends or Dies

I hate this planet,

This nothin' changin' ball of shit.

What can man do,

Besides kill and fuck,

Or maybe love?

Love to kill and fuck,

Love to live in these rectangular caves

Of money induced hell

God-Awful lies of suburban prisions,

Where one rots and works

And of course,

Kills and fucks.

We only fuck to create more,

More rotters, more workers, more killers, more fuckers,

More poets, More babblers.

Who gives a shit what man says?

Who in the hell does the artist want to impress,

As the masses go to work at dawn,

To clutch these green coupons of money,

Money to buy cheap fucks

Or food for our bodies shit factory,

Toys to pass the dreaded boredom of materialism,

The panic of the unstructured moment,

Where illusions shatter

To reveal the pure energy of dispassionate matter,

Destroying purpose, game, and all the lies --

That make us grovel in our stenchy cages of industry.

Man, woman flying by in confused thoughts,

Only a flash, a dream of the cosmos,

Is our species a given?

As long as we identify with our bodies

We can never exist,

Because flesh pretends or dies.