One for the Road

The Ebola Cola Cafe

take the last road at the end of the earth

sodden rags full of bones piled at the counter

click, clack and cackle with mirth

 

The infection sticks like confection

latex hands snap like rubber bands

but the spread of microbial insurrection

has already crossed that intersection

 

Remember, back in the day,

we packed the churches like flies on meat. "You're all dead so good luck with that," the priest would say and off we'd go to babble, fart and sweat,

turn to carrion where we lay

 

Now I'm all mixed up with clocks and the price of stocks

as the dying writhe under the heat of their own blood-red sun

blue skies are drawn with charcoal, the planet has its own

temperature

as the seas rise to the occassion there'll be no place to run

There's a solution to this, of course, there always is

fever itself is an untapped source of energy

we use it at the cafe to give our drink its fizz

what's real is only empty imagery

after all, even the misery