The Wall Street wizards in their towers call

Up hungry demons from damnation's halls

To spread across the globe a plague of debt.

Then when their virus sinks in they can get

The money's value and the hard resources

Of the public. However, now our voices

Are learning our first words of opposition

To the bankers so we need solutions:

For the human race to beat them back

We must return to them their psychic attack.

Shift Depression's cost back to the banks

Who've taken trillions from us (without thanks).

Then take back from the bankers our own money

So it's not private but owned publicly.

They made this crisis, well then, let them keep it

Until they're fully cooked in their own bullshit.


Don't play the politicians' games

Or let the corporate media frame

You in their Left/Right paradigm

That has been rusted for some time.

They'll send out belly dancing call girls

With cliches tattooed on their middle

And shaddy saints decrying 'sin'

In their attempts to fence you in.

The bankers pay for both the Parties

Then sit back and laugh at the dummies

Who're drunk on shallow dialogue

At the level of Lincoln Logs.

Victory's key is independence

And breaking down the mental fence

The bankers weave with their dark spells

To call illusions up from Hell.


It's just up there, we've built a bridge

That reaches to the golden ridge

Where money grows upon the trees

And wealth is had by all with ease.

With our financial instruments

And algorithms we have set

The beams; it's triple-A construction

So run up in the clouds of speculation

That hang there empty in the air.

We'll make sure you get your share!”

They took their money, gave them guide-charts

But failed to tell that lower parts

Of the varnished, rotten beams

Were under-cut in other schemes

And though both sides died in the fall,

Still, Goldman Sachs gained from it all.


They stand on cliffs of fool's gold shinning bright

In silken suits like colorful jester costumes

And chant hypnotic songs with all their might

To lure the hapless to their bottomless coomb.

They blow smooth bubbles, all in different sizes

That run with juices, glisten in the air,

And some hold hints of vaguely glowing prizes;

Oh yes, one's dreams of wealth are promised there!

Long chorus lines of naked dollar bills

Dance wildly circling round in all the bubbles

And cheerlead soft-core pornographic thrills

As the bubbles bounce and their seize doubles.

But when the bubbles burst then the illusions

Of wealth just melt: it came and went with ease.

Revealing to the dumbfound world the vision

Of rotting vultures feeding on green feces.


a call for peaceful and legal expression

Rage on against the biting gears and noise

Of economic terror's hacksaw reign

That grinds across the earth as it destroys

The orchards and the homes for short-term gain.

Don't listen to the painted plastic lips

Which drool dismissive phrases from the tips

Of tongues long rotted by their charcoal lies

And blink their blind and hollow TV eyes.

The stakes are high, because if oligarchy

Can bury us within a digital illusion

Their debt will drag us deeper, into slavery,

Entombing mankind's Spirit in pollution.

It doesn't matter that, right now, you're few:

Think of yourselves as Johnny Appleseed

Preparing orchards for a future need

When mushy masses learn, through pain, what's true.



Uncle Ben has a money machine

Turn it on, it makes lots of green.

Then when your wallet feels the pain


It's just your blood going down the drain!

Our uncle Ben there at the Fed

Just doesn't worry over debt.

In fact, he likes it and has said

That if our nation wants to get

Out from our debt we do so by

Just printing money to the sky.

If they need money for the banks,

Both in Europe and America,

That's no problem; he just cranks

The shafts and all the gears go-gaga!

Creating money's such a breeze

When it's just book keeping entries!


So grab hold of that easy money …

Now hold on, just where did it go?

The bankers made mead from that honey

And nothing trickled-down below.

The public's waiting, waiting still

But found we got stuck with the bill!

The value of the world is just

Some sixty-four cool trillion dollars.

America's far past going bust

Since that amount of debt is ours!

We'll all be trapped with no way out

If we don't all stand up and shout

'Stop the banks!' and 'No more bail-outs!'







They stand on cliffs of fool's gold shinning bright

In silken suits like colorful jester costumes

And chant hypnotic songs with all their might

To lure the hapless to their bottomless coomb.

They blow smooth bubbles, all in different sizes

That run with juices, glisten in the air,

And some hold hints of vaguely glowing prizes;

Oh yes, one's dreams of wealth are promised there!

Long chorus lines of naked dollar bills

Dance wildly circling round in all the bubbles

And cheerlead soft-core pornographic thrills

As the bubbles bounce and their seize doubles.

But when the bubbles burst then the illusions

Of wealth just melt: it came and went with ease.

Revealing to the dumbfound world the vision

Of rotting vultures feeding on green feces.





The British PM said, 'don't bash the bankers'

Despite the fact that they're a gang of robbers

Who brought upon us this calamity

So they might profit from our misery.

Political puppets who're in on the deal

Dread, of course, that someone may reveal

The slaughter house that's hidden behind illusion

That's generated by black magic's pollution

Because if they can not control the herd

They'll be spooked off their tuffets without curds.

Don't bash the bankers? Oh, no, bash

Them with our sharpened words and facts that smash

Right through the threads of maiden's beard they wrap

Around us trying to keep us in their trap.






They tell us that this Super Congress

Is going to clean-up our debt mess.

But is that all? One thing's for sure

It's going to clean-up so much more.

Twelve Congress critters and the President

Will keep away that mold, amendments,

From bills and scrub-out filibusters

While bleaching out those damn dissenters

Who only want to spill debate.

For them they have a mop that's great:

The Congress just votes 'yes' or 'no'

(But, of course, that's just for show).

These Apostles of Austerity

Will make sure we're cleaned-out and tidy

By being cleansed of our prosperity

And that dirty mess . . . democracy.






Great green chimeras roam through concrete jungles

In blindness driven by their bloated needs.

They leave long trenches of industrial rubble

And with their droppings feed political weeds.

A game warden, Greenspan, pulled down all the fences

That served the animals as their mutual defenses

Against irrational exuberance by the predators

And helped them flourish in their habitats' borders.

The larger beasts who dwelt within the pen

Of the warden rushed across the land

To rip up greater and much deeper dens

And eat whatever creatures came to hand.

Their hunting makes a wasteland of life's surplus

And when the meat is gone they turn to trees

Or other resources they consume with ease

Till all that's left for them to eat is us.






Washington and the regulators are there to serve the banks.”

  • Incoming chairman of the House Finance Committee, S. Bauchis in the Birmingham News, 10DEC10

What shall we serve the bankers for their feast?

A broiled bail-out with taxpayer liver,

The Constitution as curly fries in extra

Large helpings with a savory sauce of debt

And dollars shucked of meat; just digital shells

That glisten on the plate as decoration.

Or stuffed congressional critters basted with

Black bribes of jellied lobbyists set in cold

Clear low-fat regulations and to drink

We'll hand them (with white gloves) tall Waterford mortgages

Filled with fermented greed from Wall Street's vats.

Or shall we serve them in another way?

Boy pages in a 13th century manor

Their necks locked in a collar set in frills

That hides the bites of lice and anxious sweat

That they'll be called at night to service their master.


The Robber Barons now are Robber Kings

From riding on Depression's leather wings

To penthouse perches over cracking skies

From where they wait to swoop with hungry eyes.

They dropped their waste and spread out useless trash

To fatten rats up with their GMO cash.

So now debt-bloated states are going bust

Their only assets are the public trusts

And thus the way out from their money troubles

Is passing through the auctions of world nobles

The prisons, pensions, parks and infrastructure

As well as other resources, such as water.

Dismembered on the auction block they're cooked

In Moloch's flaming digital accounting workbooks.

The public paid for them and we shall pay

Again, again in many other ways

Like tolls and taxes, fees to freebooting kits

Who'll pick us clean for oligarchic profits.

The world's for sale: cut-prices and cut throat

Deals can be made while it's still afloat

In iceberg waters waiting for the edge

Of some glacier to push us off the ledge.


The ones who truly are the welfare queens

Are not in ghettos but in limousines

With hunch-backed husbands who, like rolexes flaunt,

Their satin dilettantes and débutantes.

If you're a JP Morgan executives' housewife

Too board to run the cocktail circuit life

The Federal Reserve will pay for your new hobby

Just like they did for Susan and for Christy.

Although they only dabbled here and there

In thoroughbreds and less-bred derrières

They qualified for two-hundred and twenty billion

As the working public contribution

To their doll house scam called 'Waterfalls.'

Aptly named, the public rides the falls

On what they loose on loans and real estate

While, of course, the gains are purely private.

These spa-cooked, over-painted plastic hags

Embalmed in Prozac, wrapped in haute couture rags

Are just two cancer cells within the tumors

That bloom across the globe in sickly horror.

Cut off the welfare queens, no, no more money

Which is a step towards healing our economy.


Churn and churn the dirty money

And wash it in the bank vault laundry.

Pour in fresh loans as fabric softener

And dyes to hide the blood-stained dollars.

Hang out the clean white bonuses to dry

While Mexicans are hung out to die.

Wells Fargo and Wachovia were

Financing Mexican drug lords' war

By laundering $376 billion.

It's true, when caught, they paid 100 million

Which is a fine of 0.3%.

It's telling how no one was sent

To join drug users in the penitentiary.

More telling still, they kept the money.

The reason is that those in power

Live by one law and we another.


a polemic

I've seen in Time, to mention just one place,

By 2045 the human race

Will be redundant (much like our appendix),

Replaced by AI's virtual-techno-tricks.

Then all the oligarchs will be immortal

And higher order cyber-gods. How wonderful.

Transmuted into circuit they'll still be

Unchanged; just digital dregs of lost humanity,

And still the same old vile and parasitic clans.

I'd rather share this world with Zulu tribesmen.

I don't know if they want an ET-lizard Reich

And if such claims made by one David Icke

Are literally true, well, probably not

But they're good symbols for our social rot.

But I think it's great. Yes, go ahead, transhumaize

Yourselves right now. Hook up and energize

What's blackened in those projects. What're you waiting for?

Hurry up! Don't let the Van Allen Belt's door

Of planet Earth hit on your virtual asses

(Which will, no doubt, spew Fukashima gases).

Take all your Skunkworks secret, dissected UFOs

Charge up the anti-gravity zero-point and . . . GO!

Download your brains as holograms or astral projection,

We don't care. Just go in one direction:

                     UP! OUT! AWAY!

Have Davos on Draconis, Bilderberg on Boutis Beta

Rebuild Bohemian Grove up in the Gemini's reticula.

Go bask within your blue-code cyber-greatness

Above mere flesh in space's farthest, deepest darkness.

Hey, David Rothschild, grab that other David,

That warlock, wizened shell of toxic agéd

Shat Plutonium, Rockefeller, and those others;

Saxe-Coburgs, Orange-Nassaus and your lizard masters

And fly off to the Pleiades to molest

Those Nordics as you have your native nest.

And don't forget to pack your Goldman 'Sacks'

With the IMF, the GMO and other jacks

You use for games. We're tired of all your toys

Whose single aim is simply to destroy.

We'll be much better off when you're all gone

And man can turn with hope to a new dawn.

Or, when you're all 'downloaded' maybe someone will bump the delete key . . .


They pray to the demons of power

Who dwell in bright gemstones of fire

Locked deep inside nightmarish visions

Of torture wherein they find heaven.

They're slowly constructing that nightmare

In scattered, small pieces right here:

A temple of poison and lies

In spires that stab at the skies

With portals of fear and sharp iron

And pathways of humiliation.

Mankind is passé, second-hand

Old trash they want swept from their land.

They dream that our earth will be theirs,

Of futures in silicone stairs

They'll climb to a magic technology

And seize for themselves true divinity.


The Isles of Greece of which Lord Byron wrote

Have once again been eaten by an empire:

The IMF, an Istanbul that bloats

Itself on carrion from economic warfare.

They spread incendiary phantom tools

Of finance that ignite as roasting debt.

Then with the flames, like lasers, carve out rules

Of iron cages where the prey is set.

The brokerage barons or derivative

Dukes then scavenge valued real estate

And sift the poor and middle class in sieves

Of fees and taxes from a privatized state.

But more than Greece, they've gnawed the Grand Teton

Park (which others are on their agendas?)

As well-groomed Turks in Brooks Bros. Armor drive on

To capture us as they did Argentina.


Embassy Row in Washington DC, winter of 1923

I saw the footprints come in from the garden

And leave a trail of black snow through the kitchen

While Negro servants stood with wide-eyed looks

Of fear and harshly whispered it was spooks.

My Edith always had a level head,

And lectured them that all the Christian dead

Are resting in the Spirit's arms asleep

Till Judgment while the damned are in a deep

Abyss of sorrow and can not go strolling

About our house while midnight chimes are tolling.

Each time this happens she will blame the Negroes

For dragging in the rain, the leaves or snow

And though each time I tell her that her verdict

Is wrong, she does insist on being strict

And will dismiss them just like Shakespeare's Lear

Cast out his faithful daughter. She just won't hear

Me when I tell her that I see them too.

With chilly logic she will launch into

A diatribe that builds to icy fits

That in her house there are no “knocking spirits.”

She tells me it's the fault of my condition

Of weakened health and convoluted vision.

She is a copy of the Colonel, my dear Edward,

Who always had to have the final word;

And I suppose it's for the best as they

Know better than I do of “practical” ways.

But much like Brutus the night before Philippi

I fear the darkness of my sin now haunts me.

It was in 1919, in Colorado

When first I saw the slouching, shuffling shadows

Of men and women dressed in soaking clothing

And wreaths of seaweed that they were all dragging

Like chains. Their faces were as white as china.

We are the souls who died within the Lusitania,”

I heard them say in choppy, garbled voices

And saw their sunken eyes alive with curses.

My very body twisted in a spasm

And I collapsed there from the rising venom

Of guilt. I heard them speaking in a tide

Of noise that flowed across me from my left side:

We've come up from the black floor of the ocean

Where we were bound by hideous water goblins

Who prowl the wrecks of ships with pale green lights

To capture souls with panic's numbing frostbite.

We wandered lost across that alien land

Through heavy currents dense as grinding quicksand

Collecting shinny pebbles on the sea floor

Because our deaths could trigger dreadful war.

It's only rational is so the bankers

Won't loose the mammoth loans they made to foreigners.

Accept our pretty pebbles as a payment

To J.P. Morgan for the Allies' debts

And to the oligarchs so they won't need

To use our deaths to justify their greed

By bringing America under war's red hatchet

So they can grant the Allies boundless credit.

Please help us, Mr. President, for you

Had failed to warn us even though you knew

The dangers and the plans of financiers

Who dismissed our lives with mocking sneers.”

The vision faded till one autumn rainfall

I saw their faces on a White House wall

In tricking streaks with pleading dark gray lips

That gasped for breath then vanished in the drip

Of water that left pebbles on the carpet.

I saw them once more at a formal banquet

When I was better able to move around

From the strokes that left me wheelchair bound.

But when I had retired to my home

It's then these phantoms frequently would roam

Through door or windows, leaving muddy marks

Where they would pass in secret in the dark.

And always where they pass we find the pebbles

On carpets, phonographs or window sills.

My Edith would consign them to the trash

And with those frigid Valkyrie stares then thrash

The servants. But I'm gathering them in secret

In hopes that I'll discharge all of the debt

When I have horded his phantasmal treasure

That I keep hidden in an office drawer.


A grim financial sun helps weeds to bud

Fed by the severed fruit trees' sap like blood

In orchards that were once a “fruited plain”

Until they fell beneath the dark saints' reign.

Obscene black petals ooze from spiky leaves

And vomit cancer spores upon the breeze.

Their roots of hypothetical-future-worth

Absorb the nutrients from the fertile earth.

This alien plant now blooms in record numbers

Since we have entered Spring time for the bankers;

A silent Spring that leaves the song birds dead

From the digital DDT they spread.

The power of these frauds is mere illusion

And sharpened skills of subtle manipulation

With all the pomp of burning shades from Hell

Who whisper at Black Sabbaths potent spells.



The skull-and-crossbones never flew as high

As now that it's become a shirt and tie

With limousines instead of gallon fleets

In pirate coves along both Wall and K Streets.


The cannon ball and cutlass made of metal

Just lack the deadly power of their digital

New weapons for a new age when the booty

Is the treasuries of each client country.


But for each captain prowling on the ocean

Of politics these days there are a million

More petty pirates plotting paltry schemes

To capture narrow and short-sighted dreams


From sea washed decks of middle-management

Where with smart meters some sharpen pension tridents

And everything is crafted as a trick

For some different way to loot the public.




They sparked the fires of speculation

And hid them in a fun house mirror

So that the deadly conflagration

From financial instruments' torture

Was glowing in a bubbly hype

Like golden grapes beneath the sun.

But yet it all was toxic tripe

Made by fat white-shoe-wearing Huns

Who poured it out as public feed

Of easy loans and flashy credit.

Then when they're fat the banks proceed

To butcher them with their own debt.

Bring out the banjos and the whiskey

For the Bankers' BBQ

Of the Western World's prosperity

Till all that's left is greasy residue.


The Mid Twenty-First Century America

The Chinese slave goods have all ceased to flow

Upon the rusted shore where Styrofoam

White reefs rise up and GMO chimeras roam

And sniff awaiting for dead winds to blow.

An acid rain falls from thick clouds of chrome

Upon the ruin of a once-great nation

Reduced now to a stained, pock-marked collection

Of empty and dilapidated homes.

A foreign tourist, sometimes, in compassion

Will leave a Bancor for small grubby hands

Whose days are spent fixed on the grimy sands

Supporting begging phrases in prostration.

Such is the ending of a Promised Land

Whose blood was drained away for short-term gain

By treacherous leaders who mocked at the pain

Of those they sucked for their greedy ends.



Come watch, come dance, come sing along

With us and join our happy song.

You'll see the spectacle of jugglers

In silken suits of many colors

Spin hollow leaden pins, gold plated,

That flash through shinny elongated

Financial bubbles that we spin

With magic money. Dressed in sharkskin

Pinstripe zoot suits managers mix

Recycled toxic waste with goldbricks

That government regulators drop

When kneeling down to lick our slop

And nibble plastic balance sheets

With sugar numbers they love to eat.

Our tightrope walkers leave you gasping

So you won't notice when we're fleecing

With bundled scythes your mortgages

To reap them for our favorite hedges

Where dead presidents watch outside

The Big Top's slick and glossy side.

We tame both bulls and bears to spring

Through giant tax hoops that are flaming

While the laugh track loudly applauds

Our ringmaster doing gods’

Work: hungry ancient deities

Who dwell in offshore companies.

We have the experts in our rings

Addicted to confetti leavings

From our financial innovation

While our clowns twist laws within

The dingy halls of government

For cable TVs entertainment.

So come and join this greatest show

Beneath our coffin-shaped tent’s shadow

And wander in our hall of mirrors

Designed and built by speculators

Where we choreograph the crowds

Who can not hear amid the loud

And happy, hopping, hokey music

The muffled screams of those we suck

And swop the bundles of their corpses

To fill our hungry animals’ cages.






A mega-corporate space machine hangs in

The sky against the sun and cuts the blue

With adamantium edges as it vomits

Great inky swarms of seeping nimbus clouds.

Gelatinous sap congeals in jellied swirls

That unfolds like a cancer tumor growing

From quadrillion D.U. pixels

Which spread across the sky in bubbling layers.

These toxic clouds absorb the sunlight, drain

The air of oxygen in imploded conflagrations

Of thirsty thunder falling into flakes

And leaves a lunar landscape in its shadow.

This is the land of darkness from the debt

That deconstructs the social ecosystem

In soft-kill waves of radioactive waste

And leaves a dwelling fit for aliens only.


CHORUS: A Ragtime band and barbershop quartet of John Stumpf (Wells Fargo), Brian Moynihan (Bank of America), Lloyd Blankfein (Goldman Sachs) and Jamie Dimon (JP Morgan Chase) in white straw hats and red and white stripped suits reminiscent of vaudeville.

Come and sing the Pension Rag

Wave our false financial flag

You can win

If you spin

Fake mortgages in the right way!

Invest your pension, watch it rise

High up the chart, see how it flies

On wax wings of derivatives

(The phantom tool that gives and gives).

You see! No doubt you'll win the prize;

A nest egg where the eagle lives.

Your money flows into our bonuses

And feeds our hunger for resources

While you pour in more and more

On seeing paper profits soar.

This keeps you playing on our golf courses

Out where we can control the score.


Come and play our game of tag

You'll be left holding the bag

Of the debt

As we set

You up for the fall!

It's we who'll have the hole-in-one

Just where you'll sink when you are done.

The fish is hooked, now pay and pay

As our big bubbles pop away.

You've already had your fun,

It's now our turn for hardcore play!

So tell us, do you want, well, 'something'

As the pension are collapsing?

To save them from a sure destruction

We must have mass centralization

But we'll make sure you get some drippings

From the vertical integration

Of all the wealth that we've been craving.

We're your robbers, your salvation;

First the problem then solution.


Come and dance the Pension Rag

While your living standards sag

Down and down

Don't you frown

Only terrorists complain!


The ancient, heirloom forests of Great Britain

Are on the menu of a corporate Sauruman

To pay the bankers', not the public, debt

So their shareholders have high-calorie profit

By cutting private losses with the trees

The public owns and maybe putting fairies

In bondage in a Chinese-style factory

That makes a 'dark, Satanic mill' seem saintly.

So no more fairy songs or midnight dances

To mourn a country mauled of its resources

To glut a digital creature dwelling off-shore

In networks forged into black Barad-dur.

Say 'NO!' and cut the trough's conveyor belt

For if it feeds the damage will be felt

For generations and the chronic toll

Will be scars upon the nation's soul


The prophets of Baal are all grim

And loud with their warnings of death

By famine or flood or some dim

Disaster befalling the Earth.

Saints Ehrlich and Gore have both seen

In dollar-induced sacred trances,

Or heard from their profits the keen

Word teaching Decepticon dances;

Just see how they spin and they cry!

'Some time in the future, we vow,

The sun will explode and we'll die

So pay us a carbon tax now

To stop this disaster!' They hoot

And whistle before their high altar

And fraudulent god, Baal-of-Loot,

With hymns of a fake eco-terror

Whose tune is the click of a jackboot.



This letter from Conde Aurelio del Dárdano Yáñez, dated May 19, 1643, is translated from a document held in the museum of the Convento de San Marcos in León, Spain. It was written from the battlefield of Rocroi shortly after the critical Spanish defeat there.


My dear sister Aldonza,


I have no doubt it's due to intercession

By St. Celestine on his holy feast

That I survived that raging conflagration

Of battle in which man becomes a beast.


I have no wounds, though our dear cousin Quique

Fell bravely on a spear when his rough tércio

Repelled the French twice in a bloody fray.

I'm filthy, tired and craving for botillo.


The sights around me, sister, I can't tell

To one like you who's lived in purity;

Suffice to say it's like a view of Hell

And beg you count your rosary decades for me.


We lost: but more than lost our empire met

In these Ardennes a modern Teutoburg chase

And in my soul I feel a chilly sunset

Is falling on us in a rising pace.


We had both greater numbers and resources

And a reputation forged in battle.

But we set off to fight upon the crutches

Of bad supplies and even worst moral.


Our Roman fathers founded our dear city

To guard the routs of silver from our homeland

But we excelled them with our own discovery

And exploitation of a new-found land.


The Lord had vouchsafed to us all the treasures

Of Asia and the New World leaving dazzled

All civilization with our rising powers.

In those days all the silver in Europe doubled


As goods and gold poured in Seville. The wealth

The crown gained through the fifth and taxes grew.

Where did it go? By what demonic stealth

Was this all lost as our prosperity flew


To foreigners while we can’t pay our soldiers?

(And all the guns the crown bought were defective

There is no patriotism in artillery contractors.)

Why did our pride become just vain and fictive?


The bankers, German and the Genoese,

Inflated credit based upon our bullion

And as false money flowed with such an ease

It made the crown into a gelded glutton


Bedazzled with the glamour of the spell.

So we went off on mad-capped, costly ventures

To rid the earth of all the fiends of Hell;

But, it cost us all the nation’s coffers.


They take our gold for payment of the debt

While it’s in crates stowed in our very ships

Although they engineered it so we can not pay it,

And thus the crown leans heavy on the townships


And people with strange fines and fees and taxes

To pay the banks when they have taken all

We have, yet, fall upon us with their axes

That leaves the kingdom bound in Poverty’s thrall.


These leeches and the cancer of corruption

Are slowly draining our vitality

Defeat is just the obvious manifestation

Of an already beaten society.


Is Mars in Taurus that I’m melancholy

Again and rambling with my chilly humour?

Perhaps, or is that I see things far more clearly

Than others? Farewell for now, beloved sister!





October 3, 2008


SNAP! “All commerce will cease” SNAP!


The plastic talking heads flash red and yellow

And with their FM voices prophesize

From pock-marked tracts of bootleg DVDs

Apocalyptic tunes in molten words.


BANG! “There will be no money in the ATMs” BANG!


The theater props, not wood and curtain but

The CGI with stormy Wagner theme songs

All roll in grinding code a binary clicking

That prompts all actors to their lines in chorus.


POP! “slip into a financial panic and a distressing scenario” POP!


Behind the make-up in the third dimension

A corset bill is hiding a pregnant bulge;

The mutant fetus engendered by the orgies

Of cannibalism when freedom stands upon


WHAM! “prevent a crisis from turning into a catastrophe” WHAM!


Her head in blushing acrobatics and

She eats bad paper debt and belches profits

For those who sank their wires in her flesh

And stacked cards on the errors dreamers made.


CRASH! “we need a deal time is short” CRASH!


The purple boarders of patrician togas

Are Freudian slips that hide behind the smiles

That eat intestines from the Congress with

The tongues of courts and severed presidents’ hands.


SMASH! “all credit will dry-up” SMASH!


A metaphor for the Banking Oligarchy

drawn from The Odyssey, Book IX


The fog in languid layers lay stretched out

Across the island sliding over patches

Of night greased by the stolen silver moonlight

Eroding air in an indifferent silence.


This is the island where the Cyclopses dwell.

They build a street of high stone walls obscuring

The sky and fertile parks that they eschew

For shady dens that echo with their boasting.


The bleating public runs beneath their cliffs

Providing meat and cheese from managed flocks

And forage on uncultivated fields

The droppings left by mighty swinging arms.


They laugh with scorn at aegis bearing Justice

That thunders distant in a sky they’ve locked-up;

For they by far are stronger and that gives

Them in their solitary caves a total power.




A metaphor of our times


Their glossy eyes all flash together

 Reflecting neon lights

The curves of tubular letters and shapes

 Electric color rain

That shields hard tones in airbrush focus

 Layered intercourse

Of luminous shadows on the crowd

 Here everything is pastel

Balloons with plastic toys as clouds

 Float just outside of reach

Silk banners undress rolling on

 Artificial steamy winds

They wrap around the painted polls

 And beckon over shouts

Of voices in their juggling tricks

 The sticky webs of gunk like

The fifty dollar cotton candy

 In rotted Chinese cones

Endless chatter endless games

 From booths they bark or flip

Mascara faces masked mouths empty

 Jingle counterfeit words

Their Gucci collars cover fur

 Wands tap on top hats

In flourish pulling bleeding hides

 Nice ties nice shirts nice manners

Wind-up emotions clock and turn

 With tears or smiles or laughs

The naked werewolves hunt peripheries

 Their noses smell the fat

And sweat the bleeding excess sugar

 Watching crowds shift towards

Shears and scalpels whetted ready.

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