The angels weep…but not for you
There is a broiling oven
set
at 450 degrees…
ready to burn the shit smug grin
of faux salvation
from off your puckered-up
plastic massacre faces
melting along the fault lines
of Boardwalk’s decaying prestige
as the system shutters
and derivatives drain
down the vein
of a bleeding sky…
torn/twisted/tortured
a top floor collapses
in what was once
thought to be
an impregnable ivory tower paradise of thieves
jackals/demons/deceased
The doves do not cry…
but the bells do toll
for thee
you/and yours/diseased
as the stink
from your sleaze
gags in the wind
that carries it past
the lines of stark delineation
drawn/sketched/crashed
upon the concrete splatter point
doused in puddles of ash…
as the fallen stocks run red
broken bones
mangled along the sidewalk…
strewn
as scattered skeletons
wrenched from the closet/exposed to the light/cast aside
like so many
ancient empires
that got too big
for their britches
bow down
little bitches
and bastards of deception
a day of desolation
has arrived
and no one here
will foot the bill
as we dance
atop the dust
of your shallow grave
.
Scott Thomas Outlar
Illustration Nick Victor
.