The dead rule now: they seek only
to punish the living.
Inspiration is gone
from these streets of automation.
The empire of bright lights
has gone down to sackcloth and ashes.
I mourn in a moldy fireplace,
gnawing at my rags for dirty moisture.
The smell of shit fills the museums.
The gas of senseless rage
blows through the libraries.
My body is an instrument
tuned perfectly against itself.
I can't help.
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