Weep Not…but Dance Hard

 

Weep-Not-low-res 

 

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

 

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