Lover Of The Light

Night's rage flows through the nib of a Chinese ballpoint and
Drowns the rotting pumpkins.
A congregation of flat beans on the flimsy table,
Stained teeth of Rothschilds and Rockefellers,
Industrial grade Guy Fawkes, on digital screens.
Postmodern anarchy.
Fetishes of an unemployed youth.
Unthinking, blind, wishful,
A waste.
A timid rebellion,
Lab rats in a play of the one percent.

The silent monologue creeps down the arm,
Pastes its graphitic,
disfigured limbs and heads on the end leaf of a Japanese Jazz lover;
As if to scream,
In the limit of our bank balances live
eight hundred million ghosts.
But the persuasion of the sublime can not be resisted,
The assertion of pseudo-thinkers cannot be thwarted.
So, on the last page of a Japanese Jazz lover,
Their is a poem,
and it means nothing.