Shit Machine the Clown

a nuts and bolts factory that chomps,
strung to nuggets of fate, bottom up,
a clockwork prisoner, yet unchained,
entertaining nature with pudgy shit, and dimple whiffs,
asshole - the mouth of inevitable destiny.

born free, then why chained to routine?
first mover advantage lost to followers.
constipated facts in inelastic comfort zones,
bed to toilet; the craved work life balance,
any opposition is aborted like foetal vomit

hand to mouth scullions discuss on food tables,
if consciousness is a disease,
then break wind in healthy ignorance;
while investigative noses dig farts of well being,
*sniff* hmmm, Mr. Sharma, life needs more masala.

collective conversion machines we are,
performing miracles on green leafy vegetables,
abracadabra, hey dude, now its a brown round output.
hehe, thats literally, a piece of cake!
can I have it and eat it too?

they dont taach sheet, but we do,
western materialism is blessed with paper,
sit down on haunches and question,
profound statements of eastern spiritualism,
but flush daily, no past baggage allowed.

eat, drink, be merry on air like hope,
burdened to expectorate, down into the ground,
made of the same place where shit goes,
ass cheeks will look like rotten apples,
born close to anus, die as buried waste.