9. Fussy fusion

There's a lucid Indian and a bird-like creature
There's a raping laughter, eating at itself
There's a god down under, tanned and cancerous
There's much talk of nothing, while we wait

There's a sleep, arisen, stumbling into shadow wake
There's fury, fixed hurry, to keep the nude motionless
There's a flicker in the sun, and it stinks of silver
There's a cheap glamour, and poverty is it's language

There's a cleavage never seen, nestled in a crib of modesty
There's a talent for life, wasted on television
There's a slave in the west, and Billion is it's name
There's a bottle in a racists face, pretty isn't it?

There's a boy next door, corrupted on notion
There's a broken image, w/ white noise senses
And all can be yours.