Trudging weary through homogenised sedated dreams
are followers of the screams that filter through glass screens.
Polythene bag faces, mouths plundering truth like pirates
speak at them with words to be forgotten like old papyrus.
Mindless. Spineless. Fear of loss outweighing potential gain.
Vinegar tears drip, drip, drip from fluffy celestial havens
onto pedestals; mounted to which are carcasses covered in ravens.
The carrion feast ensues as flesh is rend piece by bitter piece
and rebuilt; twisted and spun into a statue of disease.
And here in paper robes stand priests of pomposity.
“Come loyal hounds and bark like dead, dread creatures.
Idolatry holds the whips and chains!” Said Nietszech.
His eyes pulsating out of their sockets like rockets
propelled by passion for pimping the people with empty pockets.
And all we did was stare as the streets beneath us crumbled.
And each day digits would morph. Skin flapped and flaking
and bled black blood until they were but bones breaking
and, fearing their loss of place it was accepted as right.
Just wheezing, tuneless apathy. No sorrow. No might.
Until supermarket shelves were stocked with infants.
And through the roller-coaster hypnosis it went unnoticed.
Hell in near distance, persistent. Engorges and engrosses.
Stealthily crouching behind a horizon detached at the seam.
It lurked with outstretched fingers, a suffocating stream.
As wind swept our corpses in her path. And laughed.
There is no glory conclusion. Only tears whose taste
is sweet to the few, but bitter and bile to those chaste.
And the cycle, endless, like ticking clock continues
the cogs overworking, grinding bodies and sinews
as ethereal material lies dormant alone.