Wednesday, June 15, 2022

Dead Angels Walking

I work in the Third World
Where the artists have to pay
For the right to wait
To go before committees 
For the clearance to paint
Tiny murals in no egress alleys
While graffiti is: Everywhere;

The structures are crumbling
But no one dares admit it,
They can't see past the test
Of whether they can taste
White sage in artisanal gin,
As they live the royal life
From the dead age of kings.

This face to face, 
This flesh feels false, 
Like our minds have gone
To the wormhole already 
Free of time and space 
And the always unspoken idea
That things are better this way,

With the cities cleared, 
Distances maintained,
The soul suck sad 
Sameness of commute
Suddenly optional, 
A livelihood more flexible,
A planet more liveable,

With no one working 
But those who want to
And everyone getting a check
To watch the sunset
To the dankest tune
And the lit-est filter
For their secret celebrity face.

The history is peeling,
The science turned fraud,
The materialist cement has popped its bolts
But no one here knows it,
They think it as it always was,
A place for tragedies to befall them
And the stories that make them whole.