a bit morbid, perhaps. oh well, you'll deal.

The Last Starvation

the sun lays its ugly
stillborn in shadows across the wall, and
this city of sin raises a toast
to the renewed battlements
jutting out from the chins of men;
they all wear signs of occupation.

warm oriental mutterings
stir up the soupy air as
a wail cleans the streets of dust,

and the men are still waiting
for one last lunch break,
one last pay raise,
one last brag.
they pound at the pyre
and it is the infrastructure's turn
to pray for a revolution.

their mouths open and
release daring streams of words,
brilliant effigies and
fearless testimonies;
this is their slow death.

the city does not care
whose knees are being broken, just
that no one can stand again.
the philosopher has seen to that.

in the men's vision,
too much perfection in geometry.
there are no heart-thumps in the periphery.
underneath they simmer
and dream of the cool forests
where children are born,
where they were not born.

later the moon picks up
all the broken pieces.
she is everyone's mother.
every dead hair raises when she screams.

oh yeah. sucky title.