The seams of this plastic earth
will melt apart like cotton candy sugar
under a wax sun
when it’s time for the Big Shift
to take the old guard
under the parting sea to meet
the wrecked remains of Atlantis.
Version 2.0 hasn’t been a big hit
up here in the Kingdom
of a lackluster Empire
where rabid dogs bark orders
to mutts that march in lockstep
to the drumbeat of war
despite hazardous health conditions
and a lack of benefits
in the retirement package.
Compassion is a curse word
in the red zone,
and empathy is a silent scream –
raging loud but signifying nothing –
when apathy plays the role of just one more
trigger warning for the eternally brokenhearted
who weep like their own personal martyrs
upon any cross they happen to find
out in the blistering blitzkrieg desert heat
where they hop aboard and hang
until everyone in a thirty-three mile radius
comes along to boohoo with them
in some sort of cursed ceremony of the damned.
It’s a bullshit paradise
of make believe cognitive dissonance
where all the lemmings leap
right off the ledge
when ordered to do so
by the wolves who dress up
in sheepskin lingerie
when they are full of wicked intentions
to fuck over the competition
in a dog eat dog
fight to the death
where the winner receives a bloody biscuit
processed in a slave shop factory
across the dead black sea
where suicide nets hang heavy
to catch those who are too weary
to continue bleeding their veins
day after day
for a corporate monster
that pretends to be a master
while hiding behind ornamented curtains
like some powerful occult wizard
who slings feces in the face
of all the rational non-believers.
There are cracks in the system.
There are liars living in the tower.
There are no codes of regulation.
There is wormwood in the liver.
There is cancer in the brain.
But there is one hell of a big flood
heading this way
to reduce the skyscraper utopia
to rubble and ash
as the End of Days
makes its triumphant third-act splash
on the scene
with a director’s cut finale
sure to wipe the shit smug grins
off the face of all the bad apple actors
who have been pulling the strings
on a kabuki theater production
that’s destined to meet the maker soon
and pay for all the sins
that have tipped the karmic scales
to the point of no turning back.
Dust to dust for dry flaking bones
that lack the proper mineral composition
for long term survival
as they wind up face down in the gutter
where an open yawning grave
cuts its teeth and fills its belly
with a final decadent feast
upon the flesh of a fading disease
before entropy vomits forth the apocalypse
into a belching black hole of dissolution
and cancels out the credits,
as if anyone still gives a shit
after the final curtain drops.
Scott Thomas Outlar