Birthmarks stamped on paving stones,
Sirens pound the corpse’s heart,
Spread their palms,
Our eyes in shame,
But minds at rest,
The cadaver is ripe
Now sell to it the mausoleum of all hope and desire.
Providing the rope
For them to hang themselves,
While leaping for a taste of the dangling carrot.
The noose tightens;
Lights turned off.
The guillotine is traced with sugar,
Beneath the pall of our chapels.
Congregations flood to
Cleansing houses, congratulating each other:
“The market has won. We have sold the dream”
As some others of purple blood
Gather their numbers
To condemn creeping death.
Promising that beneath the tiles lays the beach–
Eager to kiss their feet.