The sunlight keeps intricate time on
the iron facade of tinfoil cans,
chrome vessels that find themselves
crushed together, God's impending fist
of fire and ashen rock brandishing fingers
that topple the playthings into silver
legos and smashed pipes. Their wrists
bleed oil all over the refined manufacturers,
who ship our daily society in
streamlined trucks, silver bullets riding whistles
down the highway.
On glass bridges, conversations fit into
corresponding pre-planned places, where agents
smoke factories, puffing static philosophy from
their taut lips. Energy fizzes from these fissures
they form, and we tick accordingly. Mechanisms
execute verbs in the most precise amounts, but
we find them glossy and smooth, as an inked report that
all is well.
Nuclear monsters rest in solitude, gas
chambers silent, sterile. [screaming] spires
exclaim reverence to the gilded gods of Rome -
Rome, the reenacted statement we aspire for,
the phoenix fire we rose from, resulting in rubble
that towers a thousand feet heavenward,
thrusting us, injection, into hell.
