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