Capitalist Hymns


In the taking what’s given is
no shit. No faking, it knocked me
back on my feet more than a bit.
This talking of wanting really
only perpetuates that myth,
that in our hype we should believe.
That to be indifferent when “Decide!”
demands of “Options…” opinions, breeds lies.

On the feeding of machines lips
are split, divided as to needs
indeed, being met when wet kiss
to chapped ass is pressed. Instead, dig
between blurred, pillowed lines plumped with
contrived extravagance and seek.
Read, as I do always, those deified
qualities no god buys, as goods defiled.


Irrepressible as ashes
attracted, after the fact we
each in our death’s heat inhabit,
to stillness as if breath chilled breathes,
even still, as we leave planets
for galaxies beyond spheres, freed.
Just like that, similar to souls in flight,
is this transaction’s tragic act we buy.

Manipulation this passive
stipulates in its mysteries
no one’s ever satisfied. If
even initiated, leave
open interpretation’s cliff
so ad-men can cash-in on these
purchases we’ve been making, fiend and blind.
Eating at wallets are teeth thieving minds.


How the sound of change bites. Famished
from having followed to its end feat
after feat of feedback’s magic
looped to sate patient enemies
waiting for states Realpolitik
envies to fake necessity,
taken for granted is what preys inside.
Jonah swallowed his whale survives if bright.

Timbre of voice colours its rise.
Purged to service, silence always
deprives narrative devices
every force’s potency
once decried. Deny noise voices
to “Yes, please!” its bleakness and see
what unease befalls, as though with flame, signs
the campaigns of which are designed to hide.