It moves like silk on the red carpet
with lions thighs and two hundred earthly eyes
blinking in high definition awe -
and all around it the people are shouting:
“It’s the packs mundusa!”
and he is the saviour.

In their sick lawn chairs
the suited men toast and swirl their glasses,
laughing and laughing,
(the ice cubes like little continents
in a bloodied sea spin maddeningly),
while the trumpets in the band sound behind them
roaring like thunder,
grappling the Earth with entropy.

But I see the streak of red in your eyes
as you rise on the platform you robotic beast,
and I know no one can stop you now.

No comments:

Post a Comment