A Letter to The Old Authority


The citizens have pencil neck form.
Busts made from plastic,
Not rubber.
Melting. Not burning.

Strangers beguiled to embrace
A window shopper stance.
-Leaned over like a whore-
Find porcelain winks on stoic faces.
Molded to create grins
That blush and curtsy.

Proper obedience of possessions.

When the drone identifies diction
Command desires abuse, there will be a
Good-by to a whimpering analyticity.

Chaos will reign
As the denouncement of ownership
Depletes the Credit Score to zero.

I pointed to my ear,
Kept the hole open
Like an anus.

Treated the clamor
Of dropping bombs
Like fecal matter
Descending into a toilet basin.

With each contemplating thought
The frontal lobe recognized
I cleaned an understanding of dead bodies
And shrapnel from my lucid state.

I bathed in dreams of fluoride
Because it was the freest sanitizer
My fantasy desired to entertain.

I slept in a sewer grate,
Regarded the patter of vermin’s feet
Over my body
As a free massage.
In the morning
Was shot dead
For urban camping.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s