Surge of War

There is panting and whispering in his head.
like fingernails of a flamenco guitar player

being scrubbed slowly on a chalkboard.
Obese demons waddle around his dome
glutenous with time.

What of blowing in his bullet wounds like a
panflute. Sounds of his culture.
Shrieks from his roots.
What of blood and mud migrating indoor

from his tired boots.

What of words from a mother drowing
in tsunamis of gunpowder and grains
of blissfull poison.

They say gangsters make the world go around.

We are not alone in this Gang of stars that move around the world.

There is angst in the squared shoulders of every gangster.

We thrive in parking lots, bus stops and alleyways
We live in cartons, clouds and trapps.

We don't have time for the infant of art.
We do not recognize of scarred face of time.
We have transformed the universal principle.
We have attained success in mutating naturality.
In looking for art...

Art that is Time...

we stumbled upon...

a rainbow...
a moonbow...
colourful bills.
Money.
Money that is Time.

We are the tragic alchemists of our time.

Responding to the aspirations and sacrifice of our Fathers.