(no subject)

[createlisten]

thumbing their noses from their fortress,
the thought arrived that if tables turn
the walls will not be enough
and their soft, fat, greedy hands will be no defense

they dream of pitchforks stabbing stomachs
and fists, dead, dropping money from some height
showering down in spiral shapes toward
the fast approaching bottom

count all the fast ways to build up piles of cash
piles so tall they don't bother
printing them out
instead they are digital and imagined
nothing added, nothing subtracted,
pixels steering the boat at this point
and all of us looking on, helpless, confused
little sheep-children
led by fucked shepherds

everything is a crisis
everything is decaying
you can sit in your room
and look out your window
and wonder what sort of space it would take
to really fill your head
so that it could be still,
no thoughts rattling like change in an empty tin.

there are events that are happening in the periphery
which have dire consequences
the light is off so you can't watch
our captain is not speaking
we are 36,000 feet
thumbing our noses from our fortresses
as the foundations sink into the mud