Piscean Punk Poetiks From The Lake Of Fire

Fried chickens are an overgrown empire of enterprising means. I watch busy stressed fat men take their shots in the mouth, driving big metal plastic automobiles incorporating this eating of death. They exit onto highway rivers running wide, seeded, wild in an increasingly automated overflow. Their small faces that shrink in an explosion of technocratic, rationalizing binary morality plays... (written whilst hanging out at KFC, not eating as though, as i'm boycott the fuckers for all their past, present and future involvement in all kinds of ugly nastinessesses, especially but not in any way limited to, crimes against animals.)

The board members smile at each other, nodding their vague approval (strictly according to company protocol.) in a collaborative critical mass guesture. The company demands absolute agreement, divine and automatically structured, so shall it be. The end. The "yes" men/womyn are all paid in equal, pre-recorded, amounts that selectively materialise in their lap-dances only once successful death of the relevant idea (or thought process) has been properly verified through psychic interrogation. There is no exit from the executive suite of the international hotel. All requests for brain matter transplant or semi-permanent (partial) lobotomy are considered highly suspicious, noted as such indefinately, and forcefully denied. When the board is in session, and it always is, members are expected to maintain a strict diet of pure water, lard and/or purely petrochemical based vitamins, proteins and minerals. AA200999