the wild orchids of love have all been harvested, never to return. coming are the days where flames of molotovs will be the last visage of beauty. acceptable losses have already been approved by an algorithm of power. sewers will overflow with blood.
songs from the age of warning repeat as this cancer culture spews nonchalance from the mouths of millionaires and dilettantes. justice remains sentimental to the few who can afford to turn a blind eye against reality. the harsh nights of winter remain ahead while by righteous bedsides we pray for the queen’s death.
& i hope that when my time comes i’ll be shown where all i’ve lost ended up & that which i hadn’t realized i’d found along the way. a new development is opening up next to city hall—’the wild orchid’—and i wonder if it will outlast me. a ‘now hiring’ sign on an anonymous doorway promises a pittance to polish brass on the titanic.