The cosmetic cosmic city crawls beneath its ashtray possibilities the studios spread their poisoned beauty outside the sound stages of parody and beneath the mechanized moon he sprawled his carnivorous cartoons embracing the exquisite outrages of his only and surrounding hospitality Images melt into microphones and smash their opposite mirrors Madonnas caress their charcoal in the future mystery marshes begging for lover and lunatics to count their degenerate numbers and the passionate plastic surgeon frantically restructures the island as he sinks in the starlit nightmare with all the exiles of his quicksand. And who will refrain from praying in the corner coffee shop churches after the pencils are broken and the line moves only in circles.
This poem appeared in "The War Is Over" songbook and the cd booklet for All The News That's Fit To Sing