Cleansing The City

The city has turned back on itself
while its energy has become clumsy like an old Turk with a knife in his teeth.
This is where the heart becomes extinct
To be raised high into the twisted cathedral like a holy ode
To the truly strange.
Here saints wander with newspapers on their feet and blue flame desires that Burns in their palms.
At the end of each night symphonies of burning
Violins consume us in music of soulless notes and saturates the air.
The ghosts of the tenements and burned out galleries have grown mute
And have been cast into their own trail of tears.
For this new skin to exist the molting process has become violent.
A new metabolism is essential to break down the noise of the great machine.
The snake has died and Moloch has truly cashed in.
The ticket has finally exploded
And the show has gone terribly wrong.
When the burning machinery of the city no longer has a name
And the swine who own the SROs are sent to the killing floor
The beasts who stumble in the parade of the doomed lay obedient and beaten
And the cages of the tombs lay empty
Then the only borders that matter are the borders inside.

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