a satire of a satire

Your theatricality is a product of the subliminal propaganda infiltration of your id,
or did you not get the memo?
When you parade your flesh through the “sacred” premises of learning, is it never that you get the feeling that perhaps you’re a product of that which you’re “rebelling”?
Or is that too many that’s?
My History teacher encourages us to obtain knowledg…. I mean play football.
I’m sure Shakespeare would have made an excellent line backer he insinuates with every guffaw.
Now whenever his mouth opens I shut off my brain because it’s safer that way.
Little birds like to fly out of his mouth and attack. They trail signs that say “NO EXIT”.
The book, though, is the agreeable information dispenser I need to get to the next level of this Nintendo game. That sanctuary full of tiny little men that say “IGNORE ME!” in loud voices.
This often gives me the feeling that we are perhaps missing the point, but if you’d rather praise Buddha than learn from him I suppose that’s your hypoglycemic cup of tea… I mean sugar.
Like the sugar they took out of the buckets and put on the brushes to paint the pictures of all those “women” whose names I don’t remember.
Because they weren’t real, do you see it now? They were just lips, hair, and faces. Red, blond, and plastic. But I’m not supposed to see that because you can’t be Einstein and Marilyn.
I just sit here and state the same things because I’m sick of this mass of Earth that we don’t even like enough to give a cold cup of water to. And no wonder we like to see our people die; it reminds us of the fact that we’re alive.
So all I’m capable of is spewing out the same verbal vomit pertaining to the Bourgeois and Proletariat. Trying to make a point that’s so very simple it makes my brain itch.
But we’re not allowed to use simple terms anymore. This is something they call unrealistic.
I wonder, how are you supposed to stick to the rules of reality when your ideas question the reality they built? I guess we’re not allowed to ask those questions. Imploring young minds trailing signs that say “GULLIBLE”. Gullible written in blood.
And then they sit around and wonder why we do the things we do. Like running up and down the hockey field with sticks and feeling like the Earth will swallow you whole not because it’s likely but because you want it to.
But the thing they forgot when they built their reality is that sometimes you’re put face to face with your own humanity and realize you left in your legos, you juicy juice, your great, big box of cheerios.
So don’t wonder anymore why we do the things we do. We just left our humanity in our innocence and chose to make a statement with the very things we claim that we dislike.