Through manufactured funnels of chaos
we emerge glistening
in the cold machinery of night.
The varnished walls of Babylon
are lined with barbed wire
and Etruscan poets
serenade the cracked sky.
Bouts of class A paranoia released
through tremors of shuddering vents
which twisted faces etch furiously
in the golden walls of time.
Flickering pylons plunge sixty feet deep
and erupt in a supernova of hijacked dreams.
And sub-terranean ruins house
bathed in sickly neon light.
Whilst the last bonfire of the revolution
burns defiantly in a glorious plume of false courage
trapped in the midnight loops of eternal sonatas.
Bearing the adopted cross we voyage
East through plastic jungles and brittle prophecies
cursing the thrones with silver tongues.