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