Observations on the Cynic

Cut up by it, imagination
Strangled by stripes of shame
Painted poorly but purposefully by the kind of artist
whose arrows are shot before they are aimed
It burnt the blood from our dreams
Smoke rings in the distant scatter lit city night, flashing dollars at us,
so we can give them ours
They’ve got fear to be proud of
Deadly bullet talk, dead like bullets, shook from color
From phonograph to photograph, sound to number, nothing to take serious

Gave us pornography, pictures, moving pixels
of tongues in vaginas telling love lies
Rose hands slumping over shoulders
And I’m told this is what we want
I felt once how lips rub,
monotony of daybreak

But Today The bells call the dollar to wake and spit its pregnant words,
bearing no shame in its womb, like an animal dumber than itself
Laughing at each other, behind each other
Making judgements upon things we cannot know
Because it hurts
To be so shamefully shattered
And we are confusing
Whether the dream, or the fear of it, breaks us