There's an entire army bent on complete control of suburbia. I've seen them coming in apportioned truckfuls like a somber plague on the freeways. Their flag is a neon T-shirt and a tear-duct's worth of scent. They take no prisoners; they make believers. They sell nothing. They exchange promises for parapheRnalia, slugs for scenery on a long trip in a windowless white van.
They smile and they smile and they wink and they say, "It's the modern world, modern world, man, it's the modern world," where there's as many words for boredom as the Eskimos have for snow and the production of fill-in-the-blank fantasies employs a sinking nation (with the radio on).
They nurture complacency, they mandate it: with job security, financial stability, auto insurance. All so we can keep producing the same level of nothing we've been producing, all so we can recite Got to make a plan, got to do what's right, can't run around in circles if you want to build a life.
But I don't want to make a plan for a day far away, while I'm young and while I'm able all I want to do is: die, destroy the passersby, kick the corporation in the shins and run while it doubles over and divides and mutates and consumes itself in a ritual of capitalist cannibalism. Laugh at the decorative people on the street, speak in tongues to the priests who'd save my soul. Spit on the altar and dance on the grave, eat cheeseburgers in the moonlight and pet flearidden tomcats by the dumpsters in the noon heat. If what we retain of society is our lies, what we junk must be our soul, moldy and rotten and maggot-infested. I discard, therefore I am.
Give me a vial of ice-nine and I'll show you cold-blooded. If I can't buy life, then sell me death, not a narcotic but a knife, not booze but a bullet. I want to go out twitching. If I can't have the spasms of life then sell me the spasms of death. Put it on my credit card, put it on all of them. Coat them with arsenic, caveat emptor. I want to be shopping at Armageddon time, I want to look the cashier in the eye and scream savagely, "It's in the milk duds, pal, the goddamn milk duds."
Kill the lights. God is dead. Life is dead. Sex was life, so sex is dead. Only death is alive, in suit-and-tie monochrome stagnation and line-printer taxonomies tucked away in cobwebbed saliva. Why are you drooling? It's reflexive, first person plural -- we nothing ourselves.
Next, please. All aboard. This is not my soul, this is my not-soul. A cheap holiday in other people's misery. You could be next. Destroy.