Sunday, December 19, 2010

Fim at 11

From 10-12 we get on out knees
and give our evening-news blowjobs,
our adoration the spit we gag on,
divided only by the nightly
poll and our opinions on
rampant reality shows,
drowning our gravel colored visions
with technicolor travesties stating
big girls can't be pop stars
and we can afford
to waste a million pop tarts
because in the tube no one ever starves,

We only hunger for
fifteen minute starlets
who swallow the press for
all they're worth
while the news seems
to be accompanied by our mental toilets
flushing journalistic shit
like a 21-gun salute
for a police dog
dead in 9-11's concrete shower
because human heroes were
already old news and
it was a slow week
television is the phantom comforter
we seek,
Nielson the watch we set our lives to,
let's wade in our misery,

break our legs bowing to our American Idols

because we're Kathy Bated into

believing our media babysitter knows what's best.

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