By Phil Ochs

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

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

Last modified 27 May 02 by trent