Copper coin that’s too much been tossed,
we are the lost.
Traversing the wasteland dreamscape
the prodigal spawn riding a cresting wave
about to break on a sandy white coast.

Rocking to and fro to the synthetic beat of
the motherland,
now perverse and diluted,
once again slaves and prostituted
with invisible whips pleasing to the touch.

Smile and cheer as it all falls down
as the circus pulls in
as it all falls down.

Praised be the silent revolution,
for that is what we are.
Praised be the echo
it travels on a straight arrow path through time.

We are the faceless ones.
The ones who start again.
The ones who scream and turn the wheel.
The ones who swim the ocean looking for a drift.

Footsteps echo in a hollowed hall
as ghosts remember the flashing lights.
The angelic, glowing overhead beams
bursting forth
expanding skin on denim seams.
The halo will soon fade, the dream is over.

A rattling dynamo exploding in the night sky
comes plummeting down, down
to the ground, where the dogs will feed.
Sinew rotted and tossed aside.

I travel these twin streets of
vibration and
stasis.