Empty V

Carrot people conceive when young '

Mating habits consisting of brainless grinding

Idiots watched and praised by imbeciles

Every blink is for the celluloid

Since charity and true love are out of season

America sodomizing itself with "culture"

Our country comes closer to death with every new contract

Two seasons, too many replicas

Someday we'll bury the celebrities deep

Or we bury the country with our dignity

The Fairytale Of Gorgeous Boy!

Greeted by a million outbursts

Gorgeous Boy sings for the locusts

Pupils blink bliss and emptiness

He never knew he was a terrorist

Bombs no longer built, but raised

Locked in the amphitheater to graze

Ignorant to plots behind his back

Gorgeous Boy is sold like crack

Faceless dealers plotting his life

He withdraws and embraces strife

Snatching panties and hoarding gold

Carefree child turns politician-cold

Looking forward there's nothing new

Gorgeous Boy now drains you!

Don't Look At Me I'm Weird

Like drunken perverts, elected shadows toss money at strippers' feet as they dance on the Washington Monument. Capitol crawling on legs of disease refuses to be put down and the burden lands on the mandatory worshipers. They plucked technology from the tree of Eden and washed our brains in the juice. Their sugar melodies soften us up for suburban warfare fought in cyber battlefields and all they've given us are rusty insults for defense. Something is going on behind Miss Liberty's curtains but we only see outlines of softcore information. When they took the "I" out of "Individual" our future was sealed in brown bags and set on fire on our doorsteps. Smell the back of your boot and welcome yourself home, John Doe. The future is in your grasp as long you never reach for it.

Edison Syndrome

Mechanized individuality decorated like December pines

Induce praise through subliminal personality shifts

The armies have fallen to lead acetate-noise

Strained world revolves into perpetual gray tomorrows

All souls are compromised, all love is extinct

Glitz Pig

This game of strip poker has been drug to the morgue. Shed the skin that took you hours to process and toss it to the semen-soaked floor. Just dance! Show us your stuff, lady. They'll go gaga! Claim the snowflake and grab the sand grains. Pyramids have lost their tenets, mummies stripped down and bedecked in severed stuffed animal heads. Desert air tainted in cough syrup pushes the remedial army to some bad romance. You're not qualified to speak for a generation that's already wandering. Seas can't split if the leader is cracking graves of those who aren't even dead. Go ahead, show me your po-po-poker face. I'll call your fucking bluff

The Tip Of My Pistol Is Smeared With Lipstick

The revolution was dead before you set foot out of suburbia. They manufactured suffering and you bought it with a forced frown. Flash binary tears for the audience of owls perched on fine wooden desks. They can't differentiate between punctured flesh and pirated witchcraft. You've written doctrines in butchered English and abbreviated feeling. I've flirted with dumpsters and shook hands with skeletons. Others have famished in the stomachs of cities and riddled family photographs with bullets. Wail about paternity while tainted babies sleep in abandoned forts. Sympathy has been drained from the world and placed in the pool outside your home. This whole malady is a fad. Kill yourself.

Six Sides That All Look The Same

I believe in predetermined lives, mine written behind the scenes. Invisible men with cluttered desks racking brains over a single word. Work it, babes! Mine can't be as creative. Too busy forging hair from marble and brushing teeth in acid. Gotta look good for the starving dogs outside. Think green, my little pups! We can save the world with spoiled banter! Tomorrow I'll walk into a burning building and save a few orphans, then maybe I'll find true love in a clichéd showdown. Life's so simpler when my paper forefathers forge this personality for me.

Sleeping

We've awoken from dreams of scripted households to a nightmare of a microwaved world. Instant gratification comes to the front door dressed in blood-stained Gucci, a warning tattooed on their fingers: “They've planted viruses in suburbia. Run for your lives!” No one's hip unless they run in a square and we're driving comatose. A shanty town has been built at Lincoln's feet, held together by dollar bills. The residents listen to eyeliner symphonies sung by an army of underage prostitutes (we gotta soften the shells!) Everyone plays Big Brother today since their peers shoveled artificial sweetener into the corneas. Dear uncle has decorated our faces with a money shot and asked “Are you full?” We're not even half.