New Proletariats…

Congratulations, I have been briefed on the new and natural state of political affairs surrounding the consumerist derivation of sexuality we have come to know. I should perhaps share this manifest with your readers in hopes that recognition of this faltering economic development will somehow spare us all from over consumption demise.

Ejaculate is the brand new proletariat. Anything less than a union for our multitude of young underprivileged workers will not do. Is it not for them that we prosper? Is it not their interests met on the silver screens and the musty bed linens of all in love?

Are we still not simply the bourgeois who go mostly unaware of the needs of our sex, instead consuming it so blind and rapidly that the sweaty hands and uncovered bellies can barely keep pace. It is we who are at mercy to the needs of our engineered masses, those ceaselessly generated and gracelessly unappreciated by our own dedication in a race to arm ourselves with progeny.

Labors of love… Sounds like sweaty innuendo. Greeting cards and skin flicks dance titles in the brain, on the periphery of dreaming, falling asleep to neon signs. It is for this tryst of palpate sensations that the new blue collar marches.

Heavy crosses these burdens, those impermanent satisfactions. Those thirty second trailers of what is to come. The trial membership of lust and date rape and boozy hallway pinches. It is an alienation from the fruits of our labor; right my dead heroes? Such that we cannot bear to look at the faces of our children made in such splendor less states. Such that we cannot tolerate the sense of attraction without foreboding; the inevitable response to a sociological impotence that transcends breeding, and climbs the fruitless limbs of altruism.

Our new minister of propaganda appears on our sets and strips himself of armament, i.e. his pantaloons. The closest secretariat gladly bends over, inspecting the hedonism from inside out. Are we evil!? Exclaim a million marching soldiers in compression shorts or red red lingerie. “God gave me this” shout the old men on rooftops, fingers splayed, it’s supposed to mean peace without your tongue in it.

All hail we say, dangling in the suspense of rejection or satisfaction. I take it back; the world has not changed in one thousand one thousand years. Its currency merely takes the faces of its new hero’s. That is why “fuck you” is the strongest phrase in the English language; and it sells, goddamn baby it sells…