It was a rabid cabaret, a grotesque parade,
The Infected Burlesque,
all lizards of shadows and claws of light,
rubbery governors of willows,
stairways of lush grass
and waterfall escalators,
etching angles into organics,
snakebirds in art mist alleys,
leaving a midnight gossamer omni-gallery,
finding toxic comfort in the arms of smoke,
among the maudlin people and the mirth machines,
frenzy of financial wrangling
and tidy accumulating,
placing orders at the chump-of-the-month club,
for the sluggard at the maw of a new Tuesday.
[Though someday, all manual
labor would be done by brainless,
programmed, reanimated corpses
augmented w bio-technical implements
(like Trek borgs, more fashionable, with smiles)
who would not know what they did, would just do],
still, that day was not today or tomorrow.
After, lived never they ever happily,
wading through a sea of flowery redundancy?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem