there are these mannequins among us
constantly filming their biopics in their weasly heads
they talk like channel surfing
they make babies like they’re told
they point finger guns at the coppers
as they go to the astroturf universities for criminal justice
i wish they’d swallow their tongues
how the resolution of the digestive process thereafter would gracefully mimic their former speech patterns
cookie cutter rock stars
they used sugar instead of cocaine
apple juice instead of whiskey
they mock the labels of movements
that never wanted to be labeled
in expensive t-shirts
in canvas bags that will always remain unpainted
as profound as a coffee table
but nowhere near as conversational
they speak into microphones wired to headphones on their ears
on the importance of recycling
they steal, they plunder, they take what isn’t theirs
they leave their cerebral play-doh out
until it dries up and isn’t fun to play with anymore
weekend poets
“i can’t protest tonight, i’m getting my hair done”
cowards in lion’s costumes
princesses in burlap bags
whores in onesies
i lament the death of their individuality
not even
their very being
suffocating in an air-tight room of wandering
they dance like dead people
they make love like divorcees fuck
they sing other people’s songs
and forget the words
they follow cars
they spray-paint golden people the same shade of bullshit that they are
and print off equality flags
their rear-view and front-view and side-view windows
are covered with bumper stickers

they kiss with their lips
their hearts in a coma
they sing with their throats
as sirens shipwreck inside of them
tame tigers
ugly beauty contests
elitist religions
the open-door policies of bomb shelters
come-as-you-are black tie events
there are these manicans among us
with black market jackets filled with
imitation heartbreak watches
they give absurdity a bad name
as they watch other people play the victim
on high definition television screens
in their cars
as they drive through nature green and life-like
to bullshit towns
that they overpopulate
with overboiled ideas
and al dente emotions
holding hands
listening to the radio’s bleeding ears
as bullshitters
translate truth into
electric folk songs.



Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

15 thoughts on “BULLSHITTERS”

  1. This is great and reads like the thoughts in my head as I’m dropping off the kids at their leafy green suburban school, listening to the Clash and wishing I was a punk rocker instead!! I am a bullshitter!

    1. That’s so sad. I think that WordPress alone has shown me for everyone one of the plastic people, there’s a breathing, heart-beating human being.

  2. absolutely stonking brilliant – with some very poignant lines: ‘they talk like channel surfing’ – whatever; ‘they leave their cerebral play-doh out / until it dries up and isn’t fun to play with’ – anymore; ‘they sing other people’s songs / and forget the words’ – they FORGET the words; ‘they sing with their throats / as sirens shipwreck inside of them’ – this was sit-back beautiful;

    such a pity, we could all be such angel-heads; what have we done?

    I do apologise, but please take a look at the following: line 21 ‘tak'[e?], line 58 ‘the'[y?]

    1. No, I appreciate the spell-checking. My publisher has the final copy and I kind of forgot there’s some errors in the poems I have from my book. Thanks for reading as always. -Brice

  3. Give absurdity a bad name….wow. You have it in you bro…I mean Brice ! Send me a copy of your book…I am everywhere.

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