The goblet full of engine oil

stains your teeth with sacred grease.

You belch balloons whose rubber skin

is tattooed with a money museum.

The corridors of stale treasure

extend through the profundity

of an empty galaxy.

They injected themselves with fat,

ate gold and died,

and not one higher being cared.

They made a long documentary

about the process.

They were satisfied by their influence

upon their own decay.

They added complexity to their disease,

and celebrated that.

Their own eyes

got tired of watching them.

Their blood revolted against their veins.

They made themselves iron bodies

and plastic minds.

The new product

was more democratic than ever.

It sang the songs on time

and kept them clean.

You drink your petrol drink

and lean on leaning things.

Your conscience is the way

their sawblade sings.