The rain is found and lashes down in sheets,

dividing mimicries of certainty

for those of interested minds

(who may seek to have care

in a dry-token community).

Sanctified suns set over there

in pure districts framed by

‘near’ and ‘far’.

Licensed horror stalks a street

whereupon the homeless they may

raise a stake.

 

I seek nothing, in bare-boned form,

nothing but to strike cold

into the hearts of the puppets

made erect.

The fine, upstanding figure of success,

you, and your own world leader,

to bring you to mercy, shatter

the china and leave you in

some piss-soaked corner.

The stagnant pools your truest mirror.

For ever and eternity.

And watching the set-piece, your vassals

at peace, a modest prize.