Brainworm - D2
The Barstool Poet questions when the Brainworm entered his brain—was it always there, waiting in the umbra? Brainworm cracks the code, taking over my body with clairvoyant knowledge of noble rot and Bangkok brothels.
Today, Brainworm gave me a fever to warm me up. Not everyone can handle a brainworm; mine's a better friend than Matt Forehead. Bangkok Dwayne, terrible drummer and great mixologist, makes drinks so strong they rival Tony Stark's Friday Night. Hanging out with the GOAT at Buffalo Wild Wings, Joker vanishes just before the bill arrives. We all know Jokers; their face changes, the check remains.
My drinking buddy doesn't know about my Brainworm. Broken friends still hold each other up, though I've never met anyone who wasn't phony somehow. The Cubicle Oracle might have a brainworm. Friday, he calls a meeting to address morale, unaware he's the agenda.
Bleeding becomes a pastime for men told to put away their war games, while politicians play the real thing. Asleep in his seat, Human Shit Stain finds peace after yelling at passersby, his midday binge of Tide PODS and Red Bulls turning CNN into a circus. Swimming in a sea of nausea and insecurity, tech bros move from station to station, their arrogance a fragile mask.
Leo, the Brainworm, bleeds from my nose and warns me to slow down. I'm still alive, gaining strength as I abandon the controller for the streets.
The Realist knows when to give up, throwing Socrates at Captain Red Hat as he raves through a six-day Fox News jag. Welcome to the Mediocrity Trap, where age and beauty fade into obscurity and the mouth breathers call it success. I wear casual racism and disdain for the government like camouflage; the lawless herd never smells the difference.
Tulips are for everyone, except politicians who love us until we love them enough to let them rule us. Their love renews every four to six years.
Absurdity whispers that suicide leaves you full of holes, a release from the dumpster fire of life. We wear the will to live like a flimsy shield, surprised the sun bothers to rise.
All hail Brainworm, the mouth breathers' patriarch and King of Mediocrity Trap County!
The Yes Man barks for his orange-stained idol, asleep at his trial, dreaming of his unfair life, blind to his absurdity. The Billionaire Bums find their courage strapped to penis rockets, shooting toward Mars to hide from tax collectors and pitchforks! Headscarves become terrorist disguises while my white-teeth smile passes for morality at the pants-optional party, white hoods hanging by the door.
Someone spilled the beans—Matt Forehead's back in tabloids. Late-night confessions, first dates and kinky role play, his body count higher than a school shooting.
At the ballpark, with my buddy and Brainworm. “Swing life away, Panda Bear,” echoes. We drink up—I didn't realize I was the designated driver. The Barstool Poet's argument for suicide rings hollow after our team's loss, yet my buddy, the forgotten designated driver, stares into the abyss of despair.
The Aristocrat Smackdown begins as we launch those fuckers on cock-shaped rockets—ad astra—straight at the sun.
The Yes Man dreams of an extraordinary life beside the golem's throne, Brainworm muzzled at his feet. Dutch youth, coked out on the dance floor nightly, outpace 1980s televangelists in a hurricane, never noticing which storm was building a church around the nation.
A rush of blood to both heads as her toes drip champagne on the Crazy Auteur's face. Lust and violence collide, his Don Johnson flexing like a dump truck ready to unload.
The Realist sees clean water as the new oil, kings waiting for chaos at my window. In my fever dream, Kevin Costner in a cornfield explains soul food and blowjobs while the gluttony generation eats paradise.
