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Everything On The Garbage Dump

Everything on the garbage dump
like the picked over pyre of an unholy death.
The rubes seeing through the ruses of the rich
straight into their computerized living rooms
behind the razor wire and grapevines.
Bad mistake. The poor begin to compare,
and where they wanted to be elite yesterday,
today they smoulder like a root fire
at what's been done to them
many days before by what goes on under
the cornerstones of our quicksand institutions
imploding under the mass of corruption at their core.
Lies so immense, even the media can't eat them,
and scum-bag politicians wallowing in what
they don't want anyone else to have. A cure
for a child that's dying, after having lost her hair,
a bed for a homeless man who's off his meds,
a job for his son and daughter, open-handed economics
where the destitute aren't eating the scraps
that fall off the elemental table of the obscenely overfed.

And this is to put it as mildly as I can
so as not to bully anyone with the truth,
but I grew up at the bottom of a garbage can
and I know who's sitting on the lid of a buried i.e.d.
that's about to go off like a volcanic toilet-bowl.
The black dove cries to the burning heavens
and earth's about to show us why you don't
steal from your own crib, or piss in your own womb.
The flesh-eating disease has gone too far.
There's smog in our children's hearts and eyes.
The wealthy come into a focus on a gun sight.
Revulsion deepens. Everyday you can hear
the backbones of people's wills breaking
like the great boughs and small twigs
of an old growth forest in an ice-storm.
People close up like stores and the candling parachutes
of the daylilies who stay in bed all day,
grateful for twenty more minutes of hallucinating
an oasis in a desert they know they're going to die in.

Bad meat down the well. Corporations
with more of an identity than your daughter has,
but ask any drone who she is
and there's a databank somewhere
that would be happy to tell you for a considerable fee.
She's nobody that concerns us yet. But the time,
and I mean it more today than I did yesterday,
is coming, that nemetic moment when the guillotines
are brought out like garden shears pruning roses

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