We were promised the land of milk and honey
But we've made mindless dribble and front running our bread and butter
You can tell they've filtered out all ingenuity as soon as you walk into the gallery
The Pine Barrens wilt
The Polar Ice Caps thaw
And all precious metals become worthless in the eyes of spice rack collectors
Religious rites
And the evil dimples of ****** misconduct between priests and alter boys
Frivolous ramparts made of humming body parts that suffered a downhill slippage in the pecking order

Poetry written in chalk on the diaphanous walls of the abandoned plaza near the villa by the beach

"The surge of powerhouse blood thirst caught in the door jam under the arch is asked to double back unhurried as the shops are dipped in ivy"

       -Tommy Johnson