This one's in regards to our umbilical link to fossil fuels...
ECOCIDE Molé
By the end of this,
the clocking tide will tell a tale
of black-blooded psychopomps.
Her freshwater wrist will takes no prisoners,
in placental croaks of each dying ocean that rose.
Children of the Dredge
The castrato will sing a sullied song of arterial angels
By the end of this,
the clocking tide will tell a tale
of black-blooded psychopomps.
Her freshwater wrist will takes no prisoners,
in placental croaks of each dying ocean that rose.
Children of the Dredge
The castrato will sing a sullied song of arterial angels
tangling their wings, in drill-ships of rigs.
We’d been christened the
remorseless Betelgeuse and Cadiz,
after tankers capsized aside sleepy jazz.
Our birthright was a
semi-submersible mobile offshore drilling unit
with impacted Hyperion mandibles.
Who, What, Where, When and Why the Frac?!
We bought and we sold a dragonfly millennia of mothers ruin
We’d been christened the
remorseless Betelgeuse and Cadiz,
after tankers capsized aside sleepy jazz.
Our birthright was a
semi-submersible mobile offshore drilling unit
with impacted Hyperion mandibles.
Who, What, Where, When and Why the Frac?!
We bought and we sold a dragonfly millennia of mothers ruin
and roaches in beds before abyssal plains of petroleum
you dreaded to tread;
the dense myth of petty ego’s clash
you dreaded to tread;
the dense myth of petty ego’s clash
as they buried each one of us beneath a sour cherry tree.
This Land is Their Land
We scribed seven red doors with chalks from their lore’s
This Land is Their Land
We scribed seven red doors with chalks from their lore’s
as the bandsaw’s crept slowly against
the wiry necks of their big-business kings.
All Birds Require Lubrication
And well the roughnecks ran red
and their godheads bled fossil fuels
And the gulls of the barren,
the wiry necks of their big-business kings.
All Birds Require Lubrication
And well the roughnecks ran red
and their godheads bled fossil fuels
And the gulls of the barren,
and the cambions and the whales,
they spoke from the surf, needled
and on through memitim clouds.
And it tore through dispersants
they spoke from the surf, needled
and on through memitim clouds.
And it tore through dispersants
and it howled through ghost highways
In Dreams of Jonah’s Fields
“Your patriotism should squiggle insipid off your ruptured beaters,
In Dreams of Jonah’s Fields
“Your patriotism should squiggle insipid off your ruptured beaters,
your fascist banners of putrid gold leaf,
and from your tanks into the very cells of your blood.
“Your nationalism should tax the
and from your tanks into the very cells of your blood.
“Your nationalism should tax the
rich white framework of a vision serpents bloodlet-for-oil-iconography.
Who’s vote may or may not be for sale in two starless nights,
Who’s vote may or may not be for sale in two starless nights,
blights of go-devils breathing spells in bilberry
and lost to limestone slabs of medieval cemeteries
terminal in clavicle yesterdays stunted by
tone-deaf whispers of variola blankets eradicating natives.
Malach HaMavet, or just another Pipeline
You and I, We’re just two air bubbles in a phthalate bath baby,
drunk at the pump--- poppet’s disco-fit discombobulation
tone-deaf whispers of variola blankets eradicating natives.
Malach HaMavet, or just another Pipeline
You and I, We’re just two air bubbles in a phthalate bath baby,
drunk at the pump--- poppet’s disco-fit discombobulation
mongering screaming females
and the hydrocarbonic ineptitude
of their crude alchemic puddle of cruor and of cuddle.
Your Roman Wilderness of Pain
By the end of this the clocking tide,
Your Roman Wilderness of Pain
By the end of this the clocking tide,
will tell a tale of blue ocean and of clear night sky
and yet you and I will still stand wailing
as we pray to the pump-jack.
as we pray to the pump-jack.
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