The Poem With No Name

I am infinite consciousness having the experience of being an outraged individual
I am everything that has been and ever will be surrounded by mountains of shit and detritus
I am a jukebox, a television, a book, a computer
I decode the numbers that bring the illusion into focus
My emotions taste like great art chewed up and spat upon the ground, warmed up then served in the Tate Modern Café
Useless eaters, expendable containers and human resources, write menus for demons that gorge on my emotions
No wonder everyone complains about the food