The Perfect People

They line the round table
Dressed in white suits made of starlight
Lips pursed in pursuit of the mighty dollar
They yawn and cocaine spillls from cancerous throats
And onto the glass table
As they place unimaginable bets.

They speak of their golden dicks
And plasticine tits.
Sex for money is unlawful
But sweet as a vinegar-soaked fingerfuck.

With flickering eyes and chapped lips
Drinking smoke from fostoria glasses
! they are confronted.
And they screams between expensive crystaline smile
Lying with dulcet silver tongues
As eloquence unravels
Charcoal irises widen with failure to control
But against souless eyes it is too hard to tell
And they win again
and again. . and again.

! but one day they will supernove
In a self-righteous masturbation
Severed from existance without so much as a whisper
To bring any attention,
And their precious blow will be left to the birds.


3/9/10