Punkbuster

I am now a rumbling piece of the machine
the glowing screen that screams and gleams
compelling moonfaced teens to preen with stunted self esteem.
You must have this connection for society to function
sever your server mainline and face time unceasing
the greasy mechanical beating of spindly thought feces

Heroes and Harlots

Here we are in the waiting room of a man's mind
Paying no mind to the wrinkled lines on worried foreheads
Reclined against a well-chosen chair and mouthing standard fare
To some carefree busybody with a sickening attention to detail
Who picks at the cloth of your shirt, knowing it hurts
Who picks at the lobes of your brain, not wanting to explain
Before you pass through the threshold, more fears and less bold
and chatter to the Hungarian man mustachioed holding pills.
Pills for heroes and harlots that fight brain rot and may not
be as effective as expressed in the paid television commercial but
you must take for months on end and spend and spend to mind your bend.
Pills! This is the topic of conversation to sweep under peculiar carpets and
doormats, that we hush up in whispering tones and press into the palms
of our close friends - take my pills and my secret, take my bond and my barrier -
Milligrams in twisting bands, a sleight of hand for tryptophan
Hungarian man minds less where I'm going
he feeds me gruel and serotonin