Skyscrapers jut towards the heavens
middle fingers to mother nature
or sun-bleached white ribs of some poor beast
who tangoed with a Toyota
and lost.
The stench that wafts through the streets could easily strip paint
but the locals don’t seem to mind.
meandering through their mundane Mondays
like maggots in goose step
feeding upon the entrails of the mangled carcass.
Soon, their bellies full, gorged on wealth forged from blood, sweat and tears
of the less fortunate, they will pupate.
and in a frenzy of greed, gluttony and lust, they will burst
from their cocoons, and **** eat, and relish in their wealth until they die.
Thus is the cycle of the city.
a cancerous growth, a festering boil, an affront in the eyes of the lord.
this grey-on-grey urban tragedy taints the land and traps us all.
no one ever really escapes.
as their corpses lie in rot and ruin amongst the filth and viscera,
the newest generation of eggs begin to hatch,
and the cycle begins anew.