The Suicidal Shuffle of Life

The Suicidal Shuffle of Life

If I want to catch a big one
and I certainly do,
the hook I dangle should be curved
in your direction.
Hanging from its barb a sign for
a huge free lunch or maybe,
a book of naked people,
anything to draw you close for
a little look or nibble.
But be prepared
because when you bite,
life will yank like hell and as you hurt
it is only further hurt to say,
things will get worse.
Ours is a blood sacrifice.
We're survivors of our own collapse.

Hey, I bring you greetings
from Coos Bay, Oregon.
Here, the sunshine is a liquid,
beastly dew.
Not rain exactly but an honest to god
slug heaven.
A perfect paradise to be from when life
cuts the air from under you,
which is just another way of saying
what they teach in school is
a cracked crock of somebody else's
paid for illusions. Ladled out
by teachers brainwashed by your
Uncle Sam who tell you the purpose
of life is to be happy through hard
work while you wait for that mythical
ship to arrive,
loaded with all your goodies on it.
Be advised,
you're gonna be disappointed.
That ship you were expecting never
really left port or turned right instead
of left or sank when boarded by a group
of I.R.S. agents, and when people
who love you say
all they want is for you to be happy,
what they're really saying is wow,
do they feel sorry for the crap
you were born to go through

which leads me back to the purpose
of this message
which is to clue us all in on
how things may really work.
Which is to say you can make it big
in this B.S. of A.
unless, of course, you can't.
And if you fail to make the grade,
which is far more likely,
it's definitely got to be your fault
even though maybe it isn't.
So just cross your fingers
and pray daddy's rich
so ya can graduate from Harvard
or Princeton
so that when you get in trouble
daddy can buy off those bitchy police
so that when you run for President
your mistakes won't stand in your way
because ya know damn well most people
are just tryin' to make a living.
They're not really interested in
finding the truth behind
all the fiction and if your daddy's
not rich you can always blame religion
or pray God's gonna make everything pop
ditty right or maybe Superman
or Spiderman will save you from yourself
before all that rock 'n roll fiction
yanks the friggin' mask off your reality,
sending you deep fathoms five into
a classic case of depression to share
existential questions with
the reality police because
the real truth is: it's not just about
the way ya move
but the moves other people make
for or against you
in this global warming,
suicidal shuffle of life.


Scott Malby

Posted over on Triplopia