Weep Not…but Dance Hard




The angels weep…but not for you


There is a broiling oven


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…




a top floor collapses

in what was once

thought to be

an impregnable ivory tower paradise of thieves




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




upon the concrete splatter point

doused in puddles of ash…

as the fallen stocks run red


broken bones

mangled along the sidewalk…


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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