cubistpoet

The End of American Consumerism as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

Jacob hoisted the animals two by two into his party barge,
because two weeks past a burning Big Mac spoke to him this warning:
Beware, Job, a smoldering rain of caffiongenic Coca-Cola shall
drip slowly upon the Earth for fore score and, yada-yada-yada, right?

So Jacob built a roof for his party barge four Rubiks Cubes thick
made of an inexpensive do-it-yourself mixture of Heavenly Ham and Helmers Glue
which would shield him from the bitter death from above
and also tasted scrumpt-diddly-umptious with a nice raspberry cream sauce.

The night that Jacob cast off his edible boat-bunker
a great drizzle of barkskin sticky brown drops fizzled and plopped across the land,
and a dirty caramel oil-spill-like ooze seeped across the oceans skin,
sending fishies spiraling in heart palpitating fits of joy in and out of the water.

Bald eagles shot through the air like self-perpetuating bullets,
diving like crack-addicted acrobats for their din-dins,
not pausing for a talon-type pick-apart but ripping forth gills with their golden beaks,
shoving them whole and raw into their mouths then launching back into orbit.

An ecological pinball game of rapidly spinning life consumed itself,
one life, one organ, one cell, one atom at a time
until all that remained was a sea of glucose and Jacobs divine and tasty shielded barge.

Then a giant hand pasty hand reached down and swept it out of the ocean.
He dunked the barge into the slimy and all-too-sweet waves, twice, thrice, and four times,
and then gobbled the ham and glue shelter of life in one quick bite.
A apocalyptic belch filled the air and a booming voice said to no one:

Silly rabbit, Trix are for Kids.