Spin It

Norway wasn't supposed to be sunny.

But it was,
and that crazy
blond herring
weather man,
who can't quite pronounce
his r's,
he's spinning in his office chair
looking at a dot on the ceiling.


And he
spins
spins
spins
spins
spins.

Light gushes from the dot
and it's too damn cold to be
Alaska.

Maybe you could get a sun
tan.
Get a microwave,
and an LL Bean instant
electricity boot.

Flocks of penguins diving off the melted rock
and flying off into outer space
are only part
of your
hallucination.

And on the other side,
well,
it doesn't matter anyways.


People are drinking martinis
in glasses shaped to fill,
getting intoxicated
breathing fire
out of discharge pipes...

And they
spin
spin
spin
spin
spin.

Like gaping fire crackers looking
for the cheese
that's just too delicious
not to buy.

Commercials elongate tanned legs
shorten the skirts
broaden the mind to what
really might just not be
the next fiasco,

which is a shame, really,
cause we're loosing our minds
and hell,
if it feels good.

We're spinning out of control
in the crack-whore waltz.

Fancy tiaras
tinfoil masks.



Fucking fantastic,
maybe.
Or it might just be the wine
that's making everything go haywire.

Cities are exploding:
people bombs.

Children are crying:
I WANT THE PRESENTS, MOMMY.


And I
spin
spin
spin
spin
spin.



The weather man is still looking at the dot on the ceiling.

He's contemplating why
we can't quite tell the difference
between

beauty
and
havoc.