The melancholy of the wasteland
satiated: pinned down by bliss.
Hanging lamps with unnerving smiles
flickering with murderous intent.
Gas lines are primed and poised
for one hell of a barbeque.
Altruism amounts to nothing
when vultures are involved, adorned in gold.
All seeing death machines
do figure eights across the sky
Spewing heat from the mouth
moves the shadows amongst the darkness.
A rogue wave capsizes sycophants
the weak are run aground
mad, grinning like a facsimile
amongst the remains of a heart
that's imploded.  
Even bloated whales consume for greed
picking dignity from their teeth.
Deny them the glory of being written
if you can pry your eyes
from the T.V. screen.