Fuck Off, O Starbucks

Fuck off, O Starbucks
Fuck off, O Starbucks
with your brand-name colon fuel
homogenized from third-world beans
go build a haven for the craven
light and simple, like your demographics
Just go do yourself, O Nike
With your deity name
and your $100 price
for the name of black savior Jordan
stamped on the leather
made by off-whites in some Indo-Asian purgatory
bought by ghetto kids with things to prove,
that you sold them on,
that can’t be proven by buying:
their own worth
That c-note is thirty pieces.

Go blow your own logo
and stop shooting it all over my mind.

Take your useless website,
and roll it around in your sterile dot-come.

And all of you poor lost once-creative deviants
betraying your own mutant roots
keeping the robots in the marketing hive alive –

All of you can just eat my stinking ass.

It’s unfamiliar taste will strike you.
You’ll chew on it like a new idea
from some as-yet unplundered,
once-viable now-doomed subculture
You’ll powder it and perfume it
but no matter how you try
there is no demographic
baffled you will retreat to the whiteboard
make diagrams, hold focus groups
taste-test my ass against Jennifer Lopez’s
but you can’t figure it out
my ASS it will remain, triumphant.

Hey, I know all you really want to do is
market-share our auras
and trademark joy
and figure out the demographics
of dancing spirits

You work towards a glorious future ™
where we’ll be born in already advertattooed skin
to amortize the original sin
of lacking pre-paid brand-name souls

But at least for now,
without fear of copyright infringement
not that that would ever stop me
I can tell you to FUCK OFF
off of my world
off of my face
and away from my