Airwaves awash in the new gospel barrage:
calling forth the neighbourhood hack,
Abe Lincoln toon in towering hat,  
the corporation is coming -
will you not
collaborate my friend?

Everything good that you ever dreamed of is here:
Marbonite floored flats with self-terraced roofs;
The swankiest of cars, in imported hues;
Your arm candy drools,
now, brands, bigger brands!

All in your grasp, now, in community gates
shut safe as society decays.

Skies spitting frogs? Pestilences amass?
Listen to the Gospel according to Bane:
in the desert, smell octane. Hallelujah,
everything we make, from watches
to headscarves - your underwear is cheaper
sourced from the next so-lala-land.

Forget your sources tiny of incomes varying:
Bakers, cobblers, tinkerers, we also have
a uniform for you. Oh you rustic
tradition-bound bandy bumpkins!
Abandon your alleyways, and
welcome to the ghettos...where

What you eat, to where to retreat:
we cure everything from heartache to panache.

Wash away your sins in wonder medicines;
Waters can part, yes, see how the Pharoah
is disarmed; Big city dreams, dream
global manna beams. All that is needed for
salvation, is a little bit of classification. Are you
left-wing or right? Center-left or center-right?

The powerdrill tearing down edifices
resonating through noon. A crane arm's shadow
hovering high by the moon. Tablets from skies
now proclaim the new gospel for the land,
the airwaves are awash
of the miracle of Witwatersrand.

The corporation is coming, to a store near you:
Amen! Will you not, then, collaborate, my friend?

I had a bad vision last night.
My buddies & I were out clubbing,
hanging out in the swankiest upscale place,
right next to the dance floor.
They were getting
all the ladies
& I just sat there
alone,
******* down
what was
left of my fruity
designer-drink
& wondering,
"Am I too old for my dreams?!"

unkempt neck hair
dancing in the fan breeze
pleased by the sight, I push up my sleeves
and seethe while sieving the encrusted cheese cloth
elderly resin glands scratch like sand
and the blandness of the disease seems to squeeze
any meaning from the motion
ocean waves graze mutant toes as wind blowing
snow globes throws devotionally challenged
prose writers into a delightful tizzy
thin lizzy in the background sounds like
barking dogs at the drown pound
and unwound knitted sweaters look better
when wetter than investment bankers at the swankiest of parties
sour smarties in plastic hats use poorly ventilated ski masks
basking rashes in priceless sashes bat eyelashes at lasses during mass
and the catholic priest has ceased to crease his pleated trousers
mouse traps snap shut in front of the bunk beds
her trunk of junk likes crunk juice on Tuesdays
and I sit, drunken, trying to debunk 9/11 –

Baby, this will make us look be-a-u-ti-ful.
The difference between rich and poor
Has and always will be good lighting,
Marching orders-- no interrogations,
Hang the **** string lights,
Swivel the sconces to the left a hair,
Light me up baby, yes. Be-a-u-ti-ful.
They’re going to see us,
All the way from space think man,
Those ******* sure do have it all,
They must have every last Eaton, Osram
Can you imagine the bill?
Must blow the energy company’s ******* mind.
Yes, baby, yes. More filaments.
Throw some Chicago on the record player while you’re at it,
We’re going to throw the swankiest party this town’s ever seen--
Rich stuff, baby, classy.
Be-a-u-ti-ful.