Voraphilia.

Come you monsters, spewing cables,
Concrete mouths that dribble labels-
Around your throat – a thick, black lead,
Government – yank, it’s time to feed.
 
Mass-media munching, false fact – swallow,
Perspire identity into your bathtub – wallow.
Peel your tepid skin of ripe identity.
Suck out your phlegm – reduce your density.
 
Soon your stomach acid will rightly adapt,
Soon your digestion shall become tight, compact.
No longer will fresh, crisp ideas be consumed-
And the monotone leadership-summit, resumed:
 
Shall cause the microchips to fuzz – vibrate
Robotic prostitution – begin to gyrate
Tumbling into mouths of the pale-eyed state
“Swallow me now; I’ve a facial at eight-
Catching news at ten, I don’t want to be late.”