spoke through the fire
we rode babylon 999
like school children making for the intersection
a horn blared
triumphant screech of capital
and we tumbled through the air
the last image reflected in our eyes
coca-cola no sugar
at the horizon of sleep
the empty palm of war stretches indefinitely
a profit-margin rounding the ennui of
all our profane martyrs and saints
history wreathed in the thorns of labour
the mistletoe we ****** beneath
putrid, damp, abject
mirror-images of our parents
and under the skylight of the mall
i found in you a whistling hole
where all the birds caught within
choked.
the dead spaces, the lacunae, the interstices; the lies of flight, the coded circuits, the fascism of totality; we fell into one another as the sun died, our teeth crumbling like concrete through city hollows, the dying moments of a future we never had; stolen dreams of necrophilic capital; so we ****** in the burning wreckage of a hundred dollar car, and wished the bourgeoisie of this world to hell, ******* hell, ******* hell.
