The tyranny of fast comfort
causes:

A recline in culture
A hard lean 
into the life of a roach..
who will eat:

any old eyebrow,
any sad scrap,
any soap displayed…
in a catchy package.

The Venus in Fuchs
awakes to find
a sea of Gregors..
and an army of Father’s with rolled up paper
swatting at the ugly dimples.

Now,
we have no taste for milk.
No use for a woman in a fur scarf.
The temple becomes the couch, 
to hid behind and grow paunch. 

The denizens left
languish 
as snakes who once had limbs
but now must slither through a tincture 
of benzoin and fat..
hoping that the fried skin, 
will not stick to the bandage.

Their tongues are cut 
and cropped into tounge-skinned satchels,
which are used to carry plastics and balms 
to be spread over imaginary ailments.

Bought by the Jack-off-in-the-office-box-
-ed, authority, ordered like a 6 piece pox,
stuffed with inflammation and tufts of knuckle puss.
She cums in sizes..
with buns, hot crossed
like it, want it, it’s a must.

The caloric prophet, on his potato totem,
preaches..
There is no pink slime..
ONLY
lean finely textured beef..