This is what it has come to
The wide majority
Flaunting their wears
Like street peddlers
Like whores
Like gypsies covered in
The placenta of the gutter

To avoid my sight
From the difference from
What there is to be seen and
What there actually is

Is to see the wide spread
Ocean aflame with
Oil seepage & a singular match

The piano man
Plays alone

He knows that
The flames will of
Course engulf him

Yet He plays on...

TO TRANSPARENT TO SEE
HOW FAST THE LIGHT WILL
TRAVEL THROUGH THE GRAVE

SINCE ALL THE FRIENDS
ARE GONE, WHO KNOWS WHAT
WILL BE SEEN WHEN I AM DEAD

Dear thoughts who transpire through
The misty and electric transfers of
Bleak battering of keys of white

Each number that represents the
Maddening gap of pages & pages
Of once white but now black covered
Filth producing a childish sniffle as the
Tickets of Vesuvius are all sold out

To death we make our money
To war we make even more
To heroism we clink our champagne glasses
To history we clear our throats
Gather our spit
And aim
Right for its eye

To sell ourselves to ourselves
Is to prove to ourselves
We are nothing more
Than the dollar

Sell your soul
Make your money
Prove what we
Say we are not

And live in the mountains
Hunting the wild
Drinking the wilder
Shooting at a sky that
Has been crying since
The first of this species
Has been around

On this night
There are no losers

On this night
There are no winners

On this night
Winner Take Nothing

And Loser
Take Nothing

As Well