Blast
of hot air lifts an array of government paychecks over militarized
dunes, a sea of ancient brine burning competitive sarcomas into
the feverish air of attache cases strolling zombic toward bottlenecked
boardrooms where spreadsheets guide missiles through nightmares
of gilded dreams.
The
Seven Deadly Sins fabricated on an assembly line: Lust fits snugly
into its slot. Pride's glued. Gluttony's screwed. Anger's arc
welded, a thick coat of Envy sprayed on. Greed is polished to
a mirror. Sloth takes a long break from the body of the beast
whose shadow kills without launching its way toward heaven, arching
to face its hell.
Matador
casts his body into a snorting bull market, inertial data flows
from insider tips, teeth clenched into snorting revenge his light
suit pressed, the red of his cape is the burn of man and machine
pawing blank checks of collective fate.
What
would you say, if you knew the world was about to end,
who would you phone? I'd
dial the Chamber of Commerce and say:
"I'm open for business, wait for the tone." |
