165. AS THESE THINGS FALL JUST OUT OF REACH

AS THESE THINGS FALL
JUST OUT OF REACH
Anarchist Christ Jezebel Jeremiah Williamson Tate -
or any other name in the book you'd want to imagine.
I have no use for anything anymore. It's all falling away.
The timeless clouds which smoke the sky, the ending of days,
the soiled talk of those towering infernos. Even all that's
over now. They may have meant well, but everything failed.
-
The meadows were burned on Tuesday, and that place
where the cows once grazed has now been paved.
Houses filled with idiots and indigents now crowd
that country lane (where you and I, in love, had lain).
Anyone with anything worth taking away has already
been made bereft. There is no logic, except now in
the tinkling of those little Advent bells they sell for
five dollars and - I notice - the fat women buy like hell.
-
The fuckheads are eating soup with a knife and expecting
it all to pay. Their hammers AND chisels have been
pounded away - turned into flags and stars and stripes
and little wizened things that veterans salute - those old
military guys with their heads up their asses.
You can tell them by their outhouse passes.
-
It's as simple as that.
Like the consumption of rotted,
dead meat, eaten by a rat.