Day at the Culture Convention
 

i live in the broken ribcage of a metaplasmic hell
the dark underbelly of mental destitution
i slip and slide on the darkside
with bone and meat thick, and a weathered hide
with a knife in my back and an ace up my sleeve
because i am the antithesis of everything in which you believe
and theres no way out once i have you in me
youll be touched and tainted but at least you will see
ritual bifabrication is an every day pleasure
suckle at the pointed nipple of illusion
heres the secret - society is shit
individuals with a need to become dividuals
the pursuit of life is completely trivial
down in the streets where the monkeys talk
bullshit sticks and money walks
and so you're the broth of a common stew
and im the breath of an uncommon point of view
we're completely different, me and you.

It immediately provides an image to me of a slimey (almost gooey), bloody and crunchy envelope of natural immitation with limitation to the all-too-valuable quality these days: self-awareness. I especially liked this section: "down in the streets where the monkeys talk."