The Money Tree

I think in my industry I finally fell out of that confectionary dream called childhood
and succumbed sickeningly to some kind of ambient takeover I can only watch now as if in orbit of myself

Immediately I begin groveling at the feet of passersby sputtering sacred plumage I hope to be unmarketable to their inured and bruiseless visages of capital to dress me in the Teflon I now believe in

And when that doesn’t work it’s just another thing to keep my half-beaten mass of flesh against the bed like I were glad to be hinged to it in whatever stages of wakefulness I could muster

But if it helps me become them so I could forget them I am happy to do it until again like a shadow spangled mid-air into being I would slide my bills beneath the bedroom door for that parasitic system and dissemble into anguish

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