The punkers died;
they were mortified
by the Good Humor man
with the safety pin in his nose
who hunted us down into the suburbs
to cram capitalism down our throats.
We choke,
but we swallow
because we are junkies,
sweating for our sweets.
Gi’me, Gi’me, Gi’me.
Let us consume until our stomachs rot
and our colons collapse.
All hail Erysichthon!
Puree the punk rocker into palatable pap
innocuous in effect;
strain it through a Star Wars outtake
and sip it through a silly straw;
sugar it into submission
so the only danger
is of tooth decay.
Cream puffs filled with mousse styling cream.
Black leather jogging suits.
Introduce it to capitalism
and pimp it to mass production.
Ignore those provocateurs whom you can’t buy,
or addict them on cheap drugs.
Turn freedom into a board game
from Parker Brothers,
with an alternative version
to come in the fall from
Milton Bradley (Hasbro and
Kenner will have children’s
sets by Christmas).
You better get with it;
it’s new wave,
it’s the latest fad,
it’s society’s way
of digesting the antisocial.
Capitalism is a great chef
who can transform
raw meats like beatniks, heads and punk
into savory soufflés
of boppers, hippies and new wave.
Next time we must use enough spices
to induce indigestion.
Erysichthon was anorexic.
We must sell them life;
that will stick in their throats
and choke their senses.
Life is not a commercially viable product.
Life is unsanitary, indigestible, and unwholesome.
Undesirable,
lacking the appeal of death and sex.
Life is a swamp which belches methane and mosquitoes.
Drink swamp water and swim in algae green slime.
Attractive, is it not?
Insect repellent pollutes the skin.
Get used to the mosquitoes,
they are not the only bloodsuckers
in the bog.
Beware the quicksand,
it will suck you under.
Watch out for the wild dogs and bobcats.
Sample the skunk cabbage,
it makes a most noxious salad.
Here is a patch of ivy to roll in;
itching ivy, adverse to civilized skin.
A mudhole full of leeches and planarian worms.
Incubator of impetigo.
Suck it in, take it in,
dizzily reeling.
This will stave the appetite
and cure the gross consumptive.
Nature runs amok,
life grows in an uncontrollable cancer.
A movement is afoot:
the stagnant pool belies its current,
the desert teems with life.
How can it be sold in New York
when it can’t be assembled in Detroit?
When you have a society of consumers
eagerly waiting to test their lives
on new products,
you can reduce any movement into a fad.
With a tried and true movement
you needn’t any test market.
The tests are taken, the results are all in,
and the smart investor knows where to place his bet.
And we will choke
but we will drink,
feverous for our malarial swamp water fix.
Quinine, iodine, atropine,
three delicious flavors:
illness, injury and death.
And the great society thrives
filling the swamps
and swilling in cheap garbage.
Erysichthon needs a staple in his belly
to pursue a staple diet.
Beat me baby, we like pain.
It sells and swells;
the body bloats with bile.
Let’s set them to feed on themselves.
They will eat so much and then collapse.
Poor Erysichthon, lament his death.
Plant on his grave Ceres’ sacred grove,
that he might nourish trees
who never nourished himself.
And now that the king is dead,
we, subject to he, are free.
Freed from his spell, we can see
that the emperor unclothed
was an ogre
who kept us from crossing the bridge
that he might fatten us
to feed his hunger.
Erysichthon is dead, but
Erysichthon bore a son
to follow in his footsteps
and we are much too humane to murder a child.
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