Two Left Feet Kick a Satellite Back To Orbit - Dustin Vado
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Put that back! perfect.
The satellites no longer float on sound facts
instead blown by hot air to an orbit of ardor,
reimbursed in compliments for the trouble of being born to
dense company.
Strapped to the communal feeding bowl,
captured eyes are forced to witness
a marvel falling out of orbit
from lack of belief that it could be up there
in the first place
as new teachers with teeth of cheshire reward acceptance
with a cookie
and punish disbelief with torture;
a vile course in algebra.
The self proclaimed professors propitiate
by force and masturbate to their likeness,
worshipping a brilliance gleaming with greedy,
confiscated ores stolen from beasts
who weren’t using them anyway,
and repurposed as tombstones
carrying the word of a God who speaks no language.
Chugging immigrant breast milk,
squelching every thought in suffocating foreign fat,
the professors
asymptotically assume a gratuitous future,
not surprised when they reset the curve
to all time lows of logical limbo,
gently pick up the burning wreckage of achievement,
slap a band-aid on it,
curse it for falling without permission,
and then clap in brainless glee when slaves hold in place
the rejected and recycled subordinate meekly reset
amongst twinkling truths obscured
even to speculators who play with puzzles
while dolts dance a little longer on the left side of history.
\ ^
\ ^
\ ^
>>=/ /0 ^ /0
Put that back! perfect.
The satellites no longer float on sound facts
instead blown by hot air to an orbit of ardor,
reimbursed in compliments for the trouble of being born to
dense company.
Strapped to the communal feeding bowl,
captured eyes are forced to witness
a marvel falling out of orbit
from lack of belief that it could be up there
in the first place
as new teachers with teeth of cheshire reward acceptance
with a cookie
and punish disbelief with torture;
a vile course in algebra.
The self proclaimed professors propitiate
by force and masturbate to their likeness,
worshipping a brilliance gleaming with greedy,
confiscated ores stolen from beasts
who weren’t using them anyway,
and repurposed as tombstones
carrying the word of a God who speaks no language.
Chugging immigrant breast milk,
squelching every thought in suffocating foreign fat,
the professors
asymptotically assume a gratuitous future,
not surprised when they reset the curve
to all time lows of logical limbo,
gently pick up the burning wreckage of achievement,
slap a band-aid on it,
curse it for falling without permission,
and then clap in brainless glee when slaves hold in place
the rejected and recycled subordinate meekly reset
amongst twinkling truths obscured
even to speculators who play with puzzles
while dolts dance a little longer on the left side of history.
