RAPTURE

Tin Man machinehead money machine

forged under molded wax skin.

Melt it down,

to expose the soulless, metal skeleton within.

No reflection.

Bone piercing her steel tongue,

drooling in their mouths vile piss and acid spit

and her children breathe in polluted black smoke

but she's got an iron lung.

Heaven has no ceiling

and with excess, skies the limit.

So we’ll wallow here,

under the weight of our money-baths

and the stench of our sex.

And Mr Money Bags is

President of the United States

but the man soon to be riches to rags

feels no shame in that

but he’s next too.

And in distorted radio waves

the morning man tells you

everything you don’t want to hear

so you keep coming for more.

Like a junky crawling to

the dirty needle and spoon,

at the corner of the living room.

always searching for the old extremes

without release from these television dreams.

I pray for epiphany

But there’s no God from machines.