Fca

a Silk Cut glows hanging from her fingertips,

the smoke pouring out of her indulgent lips.

she’s captivating in a sense, but her eyes are contentious.

a hirsute man watches from the avenue.

obsession flows into his field of view.

he’s captivated in a sense, but he’s fatal and anxious.

a nihilist, impressionist, creationist,

endeavored to qualify for a reward.

we only love the thrill of pursuit;

we want the promises.

a hollow heart, an empty suit, capitalist,

united in striving for our golden goals.

we only love the lineage;

we want the promises.

we construe the outcome as a holy system.

we never asked for much because the system worked for us.

but when taxed with logic and adversity,

the whole rhythm collapses and leaves us all for dead.

a blue screen glows flashing on her fingertips

as she dissects with teeth and broken microchips.

capitalizing in a sense, but she’s haptic and focused.

he panics watching from the windows;

twenty-third floor, tragic little cubicle.

his fealty is unremarkable and forgotten.

an anarchist, a loyalist, surrealist,

conflicted in our eloquent, disparate views.

it’s in our nature to observe;

it’s in our suffering.

an egotist, a catholic, capitalist,

united in their failed perceptions of the world.

it’s only fair to be so cruel;

it’s in our suffering.

we abandon the program and untether our minds.

the methodology fails us when barely scrutinized.

the administration would leave us for dead.

the abandon’s apparent beyond your selfish head.

the city is a machine, a construct caked in blood,

a network of oppression that contradicts livelihood.

the city is a machine, a construct that runs on flesh,

that feeds upon its victims and engorges its kings.