After my escape from VieselHoffen Inc I was inspired to write what I'm reliably told is sure to be a best smelling book: "How To Ruin Your Life While Blaming Those Who Haven't Ruined Theirs". My pseudo-seductive publisher said it will be the hottest thing since Texas Air. When I heard this I urgently left to musically masturbate to Instagram influencers. That's when you know you've got it made.
Starry-eyed, I imagined myself making slick Nerf football commercials and being invited to park the very best cars at swanky sex parties. My jacket size is 42 regular. I'll move to L.A., get a map of the stars' homes and drive by screaming, "I'm one of you now!" Yup, that's when you really know you've got it made.
Some Hollywood chick asked why my literary hubbub. I said I emoted a simple-minded guide for concocting political stories to sell your life as a raging success when it's actually a raging dumpster fire. She said how did it feel being an upcoming Arthur but I coyly implied I wasn't bothered erecting my name. Dramatically I ran fingers through my Tom Cruise hair, declaring: "I'm not interested in being myself, thank you, Academy." That's when you absolutely know you've got it made.
Those freaks and solenoids at VieselHoffen filed a lawsuit hoping I revealed their trade secrets of betrayal in my "inciteful" book and that I must have started the 17th floor fire since I didn't. I couldn't refute what I hadn't done which made their lawyers clap like happy seals getting a wet fish while making ludicrous barfing noises. I overheard one lawyer say he aspired to be a circle jerk and that he receives high praise when looting the company. "That's when you know you've got it made," he slyly confided.
They say not to let success spoil you but I was like, "Fuck me that!" and went to visit the nearest yacht yard to pick mine out. But the ship guy was adamant (or Adam Ant, not sure which as he mumbled a lot) that "to git on my boat ewes must be a person of note or one of them GOATs." I wasn't sure about the farm animal references as I watched him spit tobacco overboard but curiously found his need to rhyme even more alarming. He said his daughter was "a TikTok slut who shows her butt viewed by rotten nuts." Outted as her pervert follower I noticed his letterhead motto as I slipped away: "Must make the grade or you won't get laid or have a hot maid."
My silicon success was proving a failure even with intemperate corruption. Drifting through rain stained streets I was approached by an ancient Lakota warrior who demanded I be his spirit guide. I tried getting out of it telling him I speak with forked tongue but that only increased his conviction. He went on how the "Indian Spirit" was sent to save the White Man but instead "we raped the Land" and became "fuckers without a future." I told him if he came back Tuesday at three I could give him advice on how to be racist. His face lit up with the news and giddily rejoiced, "Then I'll have it 'white man' made!"
Ergo, I began to suspect the Pyrrhic secret of my Texas Air success. In an upside-down world, if I'm nothing, I'm something, and if I'm something, I'm nothing. Who can win in a world of sin after where I've been? (Sorry, damn boat guy rubbing off on me.) Salvation is suicide but suicide's a cheat. Did I really think a Nerf commercial was my stairway to heaven? Sioux that Indian for making me think! Dammit, somebody on this planet has to have it made!
So I'm back where I began: the outlaw of outlaws, a jobless soul. On a sunny Fall morning I return to the downtown of my demise and see the Sunlight I'd never seen before. What unassumed beauty I'd missed in my blinding heyday. In the hustle and bustle circling me I belie fearful purpose and purposeful fear. But in freedom's dream I lift my arms to glorious sunbeams riding me to the sky in endless bliss. "Stop that, you!" I was vexed from below. But I know this is how life is meant to be in the Natural Order, walking in Forever Footsteps, exploding song from the Universe. Then we'd truly have it made.
Later I wander into a back alley of Forbidden Feelings where I bemoaned sighs of the times. A girl with streaming ears emphasized: "It won't work anyway! Burn it all down!" Retail worker, I presumed. A grieving guilty man goaded: "I need you, Emily." A laughing hyena newly elected celebrated: "Fry like me or die!" A parked Rolls-Royce had its sign sticking out the moon roof: "I'm dead without my slaves." A whore from the executive mafia insisted: "You'd do it too!" A loathing loser lamented: "Love is for losers." Then I figured it: no one's really got it made.
Thus sprouts art from failure:
Starry-eyed, I imagined myself making slick Nerf football commercials and being invited to park the very best cars at swanky sex parties. My jacket size is 42 regular. I'll move to L.A., get a map of the stars' homes and drive by screaming, "I'm one of you now!" Yup, that's when you really know you've got it made.
Some Hollywood chick asked why my literary hubbub. I said I emoted a simple-minded guide for concocting political stories to sell your life as a raging success when it's actually a raging dumpster fire. She said how did it feel being an upcoming Arthur but I coyly implied I wasn't bothered erecting my name. Dramatically I ran fingers through my Tom Cruise hair, declaring: "I'm not interested in being myself, thank you, Academy." That's when you absolutely know you've got it made.
Those freaks and solenoids at VieselHoffen filed a lawsuit hoping I revealed their trade secrets of betrayal in my "inciteful" book and that I must have started the 17th floor fire since I didn't. I couldn't refute what I hadn't done which made their lawyers clap like happy seals getting a wet fish while making ludicrous barfing noises. I overheard one lawyer say he aspired to be a circle jerk and that he receives high praise when looting the company. "That's when you know you've got it made," he slyly confided.
They say not to let success spoil you but I was like, "Fuck me that!" and went to visit the nearest yacht yard to pick mine out. But the ship guy was adamant (or Adam Ant, not sure which as he mumbled a lot) that "to git on my boat ewes must be a person of note or one of them GOATs." I wasn't sure about the farm animal references as I watched him spit tobacco overboard but curiously found his need to rhyme even more alarming. He said his daughter was "a TikTok slut who shows her butt viewed by rotten nuts." Outted as her pervert follower I noticed his letterhead motto as I slipped away: "Must make the grade or you won't get laid or have a hot maid."
My silicon success was proving a failure even with intemperate corruption. Drifting through rain stained streets I was approached by an ancient Lakota warrior who demanded I be his spirit guide. I tried getting out of it telling him I speak with forked tongue but that only increased his conviction. He went on how the "Indian Spirit" was sent to save the White Man but instead "we raped the Land" and became "fuckers without a future." I told him if he came back Tuesday at three I could give him advice on how to be racist. His face lit up with the news and giddily rejoiced, "Then I'll have it 'white man' made!"
Ergo, I began to suspect the Pyrrhic secret of my Texas Air success. In an upside-down world, if I'm nothing, I'm something, and if I'm something, I'm nothing. Who can win in a world of sin after where I've been? (Sorry, damn boat guy rubbing off on me.) Salvation is suicide but suicide's a cheat. Did I really think a Nerf commercial was my stairway to heaven? Sioux that Indian for making me think! Dammit, somebody on this planet has to have it made!
So I'm back where I began: the outlaw of outlaws, a jobless soul. On a sunny Fall morning I return to the downtown of my demise and see the Sunlight I'd never seen before. What unassumed beauty I'd missed in my blinding heyday. In the hustle and bustle circling me I belie fearful purpose and purposeful fear. But in freedom's dream I lift my arms to glorious sunbeams riding me to the sky in endless bliss. "Stop that, you!" I was vexed from below. But I know this is how life is meant to be in the Natural Order, walking in Forever Footsteps, exploding song from the Universe. Then we'd truly have it made.
Later I wander into a back alley of Forbidden Feelings where I bemoaned sighs of the times. A girl with streaming ears emphasized: "It won't work anyway! Burn it all down!" Retail worker, I presumed. A grieving guilty man goaded: "I need you, Emily." A laughing hyena newly elected celebrated: "Fry like me or die!" A parked Rolls-Royce had its sign sticking out the moon roof: "I'm dead without my slaves." A whore from the executive mafia insisted: "You'd do it too!" A loathing loser lamented: "Love is for losers." Then I figured it: no one's really got it made.
Thus sprouts art from failure:
Freedom's pulse breathes brief,
Dew drop hanging from a leaf
Must live like a thief.
Dew drop hanging from a leaf
Must live like a thief.
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