There is a pine forest on which an acid rain falls. There is a tree of limbs that stands lonely here. There is a nuclear wind that haunts abandoned new homes - How criminal this century. Past the darkening suburb the dazed runaway still begs from a sleeping bag. Red and pinched her eyes burn in the headlights and her swollen womb awaits the backstreet quack. Returning home night watchmen found the surplus body stiffened in a cardboard box. A player, I am remote from sepulchral towers. The anthrax of amen I licked from the weeping wall. On my brow mad lasers play. Science seeks my heart. There is a tongue in my mouth which is cut. At night I found myself upon a runway thick with screams and siren blasts. Beneath the groaning bridge brown rats have feasted once more.
At nightfall the suburbs incubate with stealthy disease and welling rage, the pale cul-de-sacs, above which more darkly carves the moon, the night by-passes bereaved women, the muffled scream of their inoperable hearts. But quietly there in the playground famished childhood where no greed resides, tears shed evaporate, ocean unconcerned. Under stars unseen for the orange glow the reaper rides the empty ring road, to greet the ghosts passed on by tactful undertakers; and softly the horn of future sounds through the swaying jibs of dockyard cranes. Oh unimpeded cycle! You boarded up altars, today a terrible affliction upsets the inspired signal, the womb blind yet unborn.