the meat machine looks like Jesus in nikes but with bovine eyes not the overman's
get your messianic endorsement: nail punching through
leather, moulded rubber, pressurized pockets of polymer and air—
some pedant fed his family by designing the shoe—
with a pop and omit the arched cracking foot inside, the sacrifice implied
in light of which the price is a meager prayer to pay, but the ad execs
won't reap its success
wouldn't put it on the air for their mealy-minded focus group assumption
and good thing too for it would be hip and sell sell sell long
after the cows were folded home at night into the pacifying blue
glow: i'd buy nike if they crucified jordan to a post and backboard, and so would you
you'll smell it for sure if you tour one of these brave new
efficiencies of slaughterhouse: where, after boasting consumption
measured in beef pounds per fiscal quarter
they lead you quickly past the killing floor, past the head of the chute
where the captive bolt gun arm hangs inert, mute, it's gleam belying
beef it's what's for dinner belying
the mad press of febrile flesh
belying self–outflanking masses of slow fatted minds
engineered docility burning at the fresh taste of
fear, thrilling with infectious anxiety
filling panic spasm muscle with the blood–borne knowledge of impotence
beneath the nail
belying
Mamma, does Jesus wear Nikes?
I think so, honey, now be quiet and eat
at WenDonalBellFCKing on Sunday after church, honey's shiny black shoes scrabbling hard
at the bolt
securing table to floor, where
after eternity of unremitting standing, responsive singing, on best behavior
and sitting again, after the pious riff in praise of the power and the
peril of not judging self and others by the savior's blessed metric for a droning hour,
it turns out history may be written by the vicars but
the future is written concurrently, in currency: you got to profit from the prophet
the profit is the prophet
you know praise pays so i'll say it again:
the profit is in the prophet; all together now!
the profit is in the prophet,
yeah heaaaay! the profit is the prophet!
j'ai ecrit la nom d'un coprporation, qui
utilize robots des poulets pour tuer,
sur une feuille de papier, mais
ce bout, je l'ai Perdue.
don't look into it; you'll be sorry if you do!
mon fils, Jesus didn't die for your sins, that's not how it went at all
it was Michael Jordan who got famous, yeah, that's it
Michael Jordan went and got famous for your sins, got rich
for your sins by playing the best damn NBA basketball
that a human could aspire to and embodying
marketing power that surpasseth understanding, whereas
Jesus was just some hippie got lobotomized a long time ago
for some subversive book he wrote & now
works on hot rods over at the body shop
where his parole officer checks up on him, i think,
would you like some more fries?
have you been identified?
can you get behind the hype?
do you know your purchasing type?
you sure got a pair of deep and tranquil blue eyes
'nother burger for the guy?
No, my son, the way for you to emulate christ is to never cross Jordan
or better just buy his promos;
if you can't be best at something such that you redefine it and then cash in on merchandizing
you can still be crucified to the other side of the TV screen
from where you see him, his nails your adulation
your solvent imitation, your nails cash:
strike a sharpened stack of coin right through palm
without scratching a bone, right through eye without
marring the marketing scene, right through the blue screen and into the tube
you're caught, crowned, rube,
drowned in the product–self, a projected identification,
money your bleeding fingerprint. render unto common media
that which is of common media: the message is the median,
the prophet is the profit; the profit is in the prophet
get yerself a Body of Christburger today, get it right away!
Push all that low-grade greasy meat in.
You've worked hard and deserve to eat or be eaten.
and, you know, that fuckin sells swell—nothing better than money to make money, honey,
why, a vintage cadillac cruiser's a damn fine way to kill a cow,
you could put a payment down right now
wanna see it again? want to do it again?
do you want to go through it again?
c'mon an' clue in to the ruin foretold by Imam McLuhan
tune in to the confluin' of all our futile sayin' and
our bootless doin'; can't you smell it stewing?
the medium message a middle path swept up in heretic ecstasy,
pale horse rampant, girt in glorious advertainment;
the new meaning, a packaged production of pabulum,
McLuhan's red vision: the TV
is the Qran the papers is the Qran the talking heads
is the Qran; the economy, the Internet connection, the spectrum
is the Qran, the thundering pundits, your soul and
more than you know the blue glow...
profit is in the prophet; the prophet is the profit
come, open your palm and your hearts, pour
all your arts into growing our charts, for
the future's promised eternal reward is only as much as you can afford
in nomine domine, insh'allah, amen