olive tree oligarchy

It was under red wine and olive trees,
we spoke of women
we'd never know.
Where the sun baked our
socialism;
we cut our feet on the glass
of bourgeois ways.
The cigarettes started singing
choruses of flames
in the tall grass of our camp site,
dehydrated by the summer.
The panic was dulled by the
aforementioned wine.
Though the moon never shone;
we were preoccupied
with the cuts on our feet.
We fermented our gold.
We became alchemists.

Consumerism Blues

I cannot this beat this city
it’s promises of hope;
but a promise is a lie
until it resolves.
it needs me to breathe
for it’s heart to beat.

I need it’s inequality,
it’s rape and it’s racism.
I cannot beat this city,
I need it to breathe.
It’s carapace of concrete
and steel
the grind of my bones
it’s glow in the dark.

I cannot beat this city.
it’s lights shine brighter
than any star,
it’s billboards warmer
than any sun.
it needs me to breathe;
I need it to choke.