There is a soundtrack to this crisis.

The ancient song of our creature of greasy luck

Sailing past the lighthouses as they moved towards their

Stake in the profit.

No signs of  a basement past the doomed blackness.

Everyday they rose into the center of a secret wilderness

Latching on to that plastic black gold flesh with harpoons and daggers.

Their providence following her vodka clear sperm

To the ends of the Earth

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s