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Sweat swamps the factory floor
like surf rolling hard against the coast.
Gasp for air, dear children,
the West is coming
to wring your fragile little necks.
The sweat rises
and laps against the ceiling
like a lion tamer’s whip.
Move towards the clouds
the stars are beyond the smog.
Move towards the shore
rivers of neon sweat
are merging with the sea.
There’s a skyscraper
on your face
like a tribal totem pole,
spilling liquid light
through systematic gaps
in glass and ancient steel.
It has beatific views
of skies
in a wash of indigo,
and people jump
far below
like cats
under headlights,
screaming at god’s
calculating poise.
Lithium tablets float
like they’re stretched in outer space,
alive
in chains
with velvet robes,
combing hair
like queens
in fabricated mirrors.
They settle like dust
on buzzing televisions
showing scenes of love
and death
in a world of double think.
Does lithium have a funeral?
Does it yell like a swinging noose?
Let it bleed, let it lie
there’s a nascent frost
beyond the fire —
it can do it all.
