96: Desert Oak
‘They don’t listen. They don’t listen. They don’t listen.’ I hear chanting. South America. South Africa. Cambodia. Vietnam. The Philippians. A basement in China, I kick the bars from the sidewalk. Shut up down there, you’ll scare the stupid puppies on their baby purple leather leashes. When will the collar and the strap that yanks the neck switch rolls? When will the natural world sweep in once again and take full control of these savage thinking machines? I throw up my hands at the edge of the sea and scream bloody murder. I stomp my naked feet and kick the sand, splash and run and cry and beg. ‘Please! I can’t sleep one more night in this shit. Our worthlessness. Our plastic cards injected into plastic boxes sticking out of brick, on top of pavement, under the pressure of her gaze. They spit out money; watch the manipulation continue to manipulate itself out of feeling anything. ‘Look, baby, he can’t eat! Look around you! Look at you dance. My god you’re fucking gorgeous. Are you hungry? Are they hungry? What’s hunger here? The trampled on bodies don’t even remember the taste of real food. I still remember what you taste like, metal and dust and acid, corroding from the inside out. Fare is fare fucker. My love for you doesn’t absolve you from your crimes. I still find you guilty. I find you rotten at your very core, beautiful baby girl, and still I remain. I will love you all the same. I will ache no more for the pure of heart than of a blank blackout stare. I will still look. I will stand by your side. When the desert oak is the only thing that remains alive, I will melt where you melt. I choose your fate. I choose you my love; dead or alive.’