Meat Market, Part 1

And there it is, the everyday
fumbling of our sparse
lives, repetitive
echo of dysfunction
like history and its natural
humanness full of blood
and the shadowed
disgrace of trading
lives for economy. Truth is,
living is
a euphemism for work suffer
scrape and murder
your inner savage heart
leaping around its bleeding cage
on the marbled steps
of your fairytale
dogmatic duty to democracy.
Living is
the sound of sucking
your soul away,
making fat the Wall
street meat market purgatory.
Stack high the bones of dignity.
Your rusted hopes mortar the walls
of the ivory tower that pisses on you,
towering over your cowered head
while you pray for tax breaks
from a broken system
that broke your ba(n)ck.