I Am The Rebel
Shawn Michel de Montaigne

'Tis peace I seek
And will never find: Society's waste continues
To grind and grind...
Dregs of humanity laid bare to see;
Never again will this again be.

It never happens that an asshole spares
Me on the road; his cell-phone in hand,
The yellow toad.
His cock is hard, thinking of his bang,
Not his wife, but some young thang.
He met this plastic whore
On the opposite shore--
A business outing,
No kids were shouting.
Spurred on by his bloating, money-hungry wife,
His wealth only gave more sagging strife
To his pathetic life.

But this is professional, Seven-Habits-of-Highly-Effective-People behavior.

The nightmares of humanity, in their greedy leaps,
Consume and compare
Their mighty heaps.
Those cleaved by life, and the corporate glare,
Have nothing but broken time to share,
Under the collective condescending stare.

We call this nonattachment.

We castrate the land and call it grand.
We feed the machines with fashion magazines.
We oil the cogs of social order gone mad,
And curse the poor, for whom we feed,
Then label "bad."
"They are too lazy!" we cry at our cocktail hazy;
"Move 'em outta town!" you cackle with a frown.
"Get a goddamned job!" whistles the corporate snob;
"Fuckin' shoot 'em all!" overheard in the KKK hall.

Yes, we are non-enabling, healthy adults.

I am the Rebel and am labeled insane;
I rage at the machine and its infernal pain...
I cry to Jesus but am told again:
Jesus the CEO can't hear me complain:
(On his way to Palm Springs--find another chaplain.
He no longer can associate with you...small people.)

But what if I bought a Lincoln Navigator?

No, the fencing adorns
The slave's head like thorns.
Her tired blood trickles
As the trophy wife tickles
Her burgeoning bank account.

But this is just free enterprise.

We slather on about our New Year's resolutions,
Our constitutions,
Our profit solutions.
We crave that flat tummy,
Those celeb chummies,
That party-line photo dummy--
Our One Great Chance at Fortune.
We think "Happy Days" was real,
Think "Jerry Springer" can heal,
Think we can make headlines with that
Multimillion-dollar deal,
And enjoy the justice as we strap that non-white
To the state's electric eel.

Feel the burn, baby.

Santa's fucking an inbred elf,
His obese wife stocking the Wal-mart shelf,
Compounded by the knowledge that,
As we step on our consumption mat
(wiping our feet of the muddied starving),
It's our world our consumption is carving.
Want fries with that?

Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Copyright SMdM 2001.
All rights reserved.