Flood
A cornucopia of bright-eyed pastel pasted smile
talking heads
their monotone pleasure-drone of mindless witless
pseudo-new-light assault babble
as they hustle for silver to build a bridge to heaven
or score a limo ride to the nearest streetcorner
of earthly desire,
a flood of spit rains on them.
Holy water.
A cornucopia of bright-eyed pastel pasted smile
talking heads
their monotone pleasure-drone of mindless witless
pseudo-new-light assault babble
as they hustle for silver to build a bridge to heaven
or score a limo ride to the nearest streetcorner
of earthly desire,
a flood of spit rains on them.
Holy water.
Paul Kimball
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