Thought Industry - Love Is America Spelled Backwards

"My girlfriend and I are quite poor. So we crash
funeral gatherings for the free food. Hell, everybody's
so busy crying and consoling; they don't even notice us
in the coatroom pillaging their clothes and purses. It's
too bad that you can't run very far on an orbiting
space colony."

I) Garden Greenroom, Battle Creek Funeral Simulation

Type writehead collide. Tap tap paper tie. Prolific
benign. Fill me throat cheap rye.

I breathe a funeral foyer. Me with glue girl Margaret.
Now she's kissing me. We drink gin till we can't see.
Pâté brunch for symposium. Pink balloons drape the
coffins. It reads no systole. I spill scotch on the body.

Shit smile prom night. Rational hick life. Self-hypnosis
guide. Exuberance lactize.

I hear a song on the radio. So I spit on the dial. Now
she's kissing me. We snort scotch till we're plastic.
There's a gimp with a yo-yo who say's Pepsi owns
Tokyo. He says pardon me. Let's bury the body. Hey,
hey let's drive to the grave. Now our cars are a gay
parade. He says, "Hey, hey. Let's drive to the grave.
We'll bury meat on a rainy day."

Human Landfill. I trip to walk.

Margaret hands me a Librium, I say "thanks for the
confidence." Now she's kissing me, my flask of Chaska's
empty. I stumble up to the podium, and push down the
Reverend. They'll yell, "Eulogy". So I pass out on the
body. Hey, hey fill in the grave. Shovel mud on a deity.
I say, "Hey, hey. Fill in the grave, then steal the
collection tray. Pack some mud on the pious meat.
Pack some mud on Uncle Sam.

God bless the grime.