There is a supermarket
That I go to
Sometimes
When I’m out of meat or milk
Or green vegetables in cans
And at this supermarket
Floating lazily down from the ceiling
Is music
Or as I call it
Elevator muzak
A sort of gentrified friendly yet cold
Watered down jazz
Humming along
To a tune that ought to be a funeral march
Jazz is dead
Jazz is dead
And the old people who listened to it
Are dropping like fleas off a bloated piece of rotten fruit for sale 50 cents a pound yum yum
The supermarket with its tabloids for sale right near the register
And its pyramids of 6 packs displayed prominently for those of us over 21
If that supermarket starts playing rock and roll for the housewives from your
Then I hope I dye of food poisoning
Ah the supermarket, silent gathering place of this no longer new world
There is one every few blocks of every city
The employees of one store shopping at others
Feeding the economy until its inevitable imaginary heart attack
Well with the amount of never-ending food some good little boys & girls might say
“Thank god for the supermarket!”
I think deep down in their hearts which sit on glass shelves waiting to be bought up by the unhungry
The real thought one thinks while leafing through people magazine at the checkout line and eying the candy
Is
“Thank supermarket for god!”

Ahhhhhh mummy-zombie music...
(subliminal messages...buy me-buy me-)

Interesting write lizzard...

hate shopping myself, but what's wrong with rock-n-roll for housewives? creative and great as always.

ick i just looked it over and realized it has a crapload of typos! i cant edit it now heh

Ok i just finished this poem, putting it up here like i did was premature and immatture and the poem was unfinished
SO here is the finished product and its superior in every way to that first version







Supermarket Jazz

There is a supermarket
That I go to
Sometimes
When I’m out of meat or milk
Or vegetables in cans
And at this supermarket
Constantly floating lazily from the ceiling which has the state flags hanging down from its rafters
Is music
Or as I call it
Elevator muzak
A sort of watered down jazz
Gentrified friendly cold swinging like a corpse with a rope around its neck
If music could be seen there would be a sign around its neck reading
“ I stopped spinning at 45 revolutions per minute 4 or 3 revolutions ago”
Watered down jazz
Humming along too a tune that ought to be a funeral march
Jazz is dead jazz is dead
Who am I to lament the death of jazz?
With my fall out boy t-shirt and wannabe rock & roll bad attitude that I bought from a cereal box
Jazz is dead
And the elderly people who listened too it
Are dropping like bloated parasites off the rotten piece of fruit earth they started the long dig down into
50 cents pound yum yum
The supermarket with its tabloids for sale near the register
And its pyramids of six packs proudly displayed for those of over 21 years old
If that store starts playing My Generation or Smells like Teen Spirit for the housewives
Then I hope I die of poisoning from the can of pickled oysters I hold the way a mujahadeen holds a grenade
Ah the grocery store grandest invention of modern man killing millions with cigarettes and processed food
Gun crimes don’t hold a candle to this murderous complacency
Silent gathering place of this not so new world order
Swat team ordering me to put down the bad oysters before I do something I regret
Regret?
You just don’t want me to projectile vomit all over you Mr. pOliceman
Unfortunately for you vomiting is what I do
There is a store every few miles from every house on every street
Everyone is an employee of some kind of supermarket
The employees of one place shopping at another
Feeding the economy with its’ inevitable eventual imaginary heart attack
Well with the amount of hyper survival provided
Some good little girls and boys might say “thank god for the supermarket”
I think deep down in their unhungry hearts which sit on glass shelves waiting to be snatched up
The real thought which is thought
while leafing through People magazine at the express checkout line eying the candy
Is
“Thank supermarket for god”

we are always editing in our minds, yes? very creative