the words of the profit, prophetical projections of puritanical plutocracies, the sound of spare change rattling in the paper cup hearts gurgling in the throats of sick infants, coal soot streaked breasts on which the cleft lip suckles, dead dreamers drift among the reeds

the golden apple of eris, the unblinking eye of horus, the skull, the bone, the venom hissing against the bone marrow insipidness, hollow chocolate facsimiles of rigid desperados, high noon as the vultures sit on the church steeple indifferent to anything but apathetic hunger

i used to recognize these streets, these people, this land — now i am unsure if they have changed or the scabs fell off my eyes, no longer filtering the panoramic into easily digestible bites, vat grown mutations slowly basted in their own decompositional longing, trapped in fear

slipping in between states of being, human not an option, a scurrilous self facing contraption, gears and chains, wading the shallows to gather corpses, forming a raft of dead poets to float far from the ever present effervescent regurgitants like fountains on town square