Spread
Written in wrinkles are senseless obsessions printed like incurable diseases.
And on a need-to-know basis, words become contagious killers, saturating the air like graffiti on a wall.
Our minds are easily infested with laughing pests, speaking of false intelligence and very few would rather rot in the corners of sterilization until it’s safe to move on.
We have been told that our heads are full of sin and viruses and disability.
Give me pills. Quickly fix me. Forgive me.
We are force fed the newest diet plan.
We have been diagnosed with profitability syndrome. They tell us we are sick bugs who need them.
Five-thousand dollar burial box.
Headlines and controversy and commercials fed intravenously into our veins. Catheter full of excitement and concern.
The nurse vigorously licks the bottom of a coffee cup in front of a beeping screen.
Entertainment is the late breaking news on the lives of our most well-known, no-talent alcoholics and cokeheads.
This stylish exploitation is a fashion statement.
What they’re looking for is blood on the pavement.
These filthy, self-proclaimed professors wade in shallow wastewater and don’t bother to wash their feet sensibly.
My body feels like a chunk of raw meat, salted and seasoned for the geniuses to eat.
Even as we migrate, the spread bites us.
Our only solutions come in silent syringes blinding sight and attention.
Focus our wrath and cold apathy and see what’s happening.
Take the vaccine, a suppressor in a subtle shot.
Wipe the insecticide from your eyes!
This is the apocalyptic lecture of social skin spots.
Andrew Spiess