My best friend is a voice coming from a plastic box.
I throw a punch at the papier-mâché bust of the queen
So that dust and plaster obscure the studio walls
Where photographs of dead politicians hang
With gaunt portraits of farmers
Who harvested diseased corn and wheat
To serve melancholy orphans in austere orphanages.
All of my future strange friends sit cross-legged in tiny rooms
With all the walls painted black.
I shine my black boots to prepare for their company.
How ironic that it is only in shadow that we can see the light.
Buildings collapse from indifferent dynamite
And one lone cow wanders into the rubble,
Her silver bell clanging quietly.
I observe the scene from the narrow stream that meanders by,
And there is no oxygen to breathe,
Only sadness and futility that fill my lungs until they burst.
Now the debris of the universe blows across landscapes
While men and women line the empty roads
In black suits and bowler hats,
Hands crossed upon their necks to signal that this earth
Has truly become uninhabitable at last.