Death To Post-Modernism: A World Fractured...Not Divided

Four handsome men    sing lullabys:    security    oppurtunity    pride    defense.    Four monsters    bleed through the pores    of a dapper´s mask:    repression    nationalism    patriotism    militarism.         I have no pulpit    no personal driver    no mahogany table    to rest my gut on.    No money, no success    no consciousness.    No power, no control    no more clothes;    stolen from me at gunpoint.    The pleasure spots on my flesh    numbered and registered    for quicker manipulation,    others consume champagne    while I drink table wine    and pretend.         Panic drips from windows, the scent    of black and white talking pictures,    torture victims and their genitals    scrubbed with black colored pencil    hidden behind a bubbling white veil.    I am not alone in the streets    with my gas mask and dry heaves    as long as the mob runs    in the same direction.      But as long as the chassis    are heard in the distance    we are all on our own.