Geppetto’s String

God’s one fuck up

is assholes. Not your full moon

but the two

sitting beside you. 

And the one behind 

the invisible one

coming towards you

with a sword.
Literally all over 

the landscape. Asshole City.

Asshole Mountain. 

The Town of Asshole. 

The Hamlet. The hostel.

The hordes from the Asshole Mall

inked to the tits w/butt-cheeks.
Your sphincter tightens in self-defense.

You brace yourself

for the onslaught of shit

that follows the wake of these assholes.

Big. Tall. Doesn’t matter.

Cute ‘n pretty sells you stock.
Or tries. And in your least discernible moment

you’re tempted to buy but why be an asshole?

We mock ourselves enough. Do we need that brand too?

I guess. Seems like the whole team’s buying into

the dumb-down. The super-sized soda and fries.

The weekend license to watch w/o charge

all your favorite asshole shows. One after the other.

Like a marathon. Like the march of the wooden soldiers

w/o Geppetto’s string this time,

but chains. Links of ignorance and vice.


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