poetry critical

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the world is a business, Mr. Beale

he is not a boy anymore
innocence robbed
by fat cat industry officials
running bottom line businesses
concerned only with net profit
appearing on pie charts and scatter graphs.
not a child anymore,
his days of playing in the sandbox
were numbered;
he's become a virulent strain of pandemonium,
a fever polluting our people
a malformed monster piecemealed together,
the mouth-vomit of marketers
a runaway freight train,
no longer human
since his signing, his mind is
a brand that remains current
its capital concern earning currency
he's a transnational corporation
with operations in China,
Japan, India and France;
a commodity, a stock
bought and sold like chattel.
he is a vacuum:
a black hole turning inward
swallowing everything like debris,
he is a self-disassembling machine,
a series of press releases
and post-concert interviews
an indivisible, unilateral business.
a factory line assembly plant
where tiny unpaid fingers
produce tiny cheap bookmarks,
and perfume
posters, t-shirts, a sticker collection
that gullible teens will place
in their ring bound planners.
he's now a symbol,
he stands for nineteen dollars and ninety nine cents
your daughter spent on a CD,
the thirty dollar mug with his angelic mug
the two-hundred dollar entry fee
to attend his prefabricated
pyrotechnical spectacular
where fans' faces lit up like mirrors
reflecting consumerism right back
at the machine that made them.
an icon, a fantastic fantasy
featuring him in compromising positions
like an eighteenth century harlot,
legs swathed in velvet
inviting and coy
but just safe enough not to offend
he's fun, fun for the whole family
he's a trip to your local shopping mall,
or a baseball game with peanuts and crackerjacks.
he's the new black
he's what's fashionable and stylish
cut your hair like him
become a cheap imitation
a hollowed out husk
a wax museum in Tussauds
empty of independent thought.
not a human being
he's an ideology, a religion, a cult
a cause to fly your banner under,
a bumper sticker for your car,
a perfect little nugget
pumping out masturbatory tunes
to soothe your broken spirit,
subjugating and defiling;
he's misinformation, an easy distraction
entertainment for a nation that is pained
raped of freedom
mouths agape and beaten
just lie there bleeding
like crushed flowers

7 Feb 19

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I really liked this poem, who is the author of this?
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 — alvinrr