scorched birds are falling from the red clouds
dried-out mouse carcasses among the blades of grass
soft carpets of flying ants on the asphalt
the phosphorescent landscape moans
the heat raves on the turntables of the living dead
the cicadas are fucking a grass snake’s corpse
in the garden, tea is brewing in plastic pools
in the pathetic world of homo sapiens
the counterfeit creator, shrieking behind a human disguise
dreams up another business enterprise
to the rhythm of humming air conditioners, the wasps dance
in the cool rooms, ghosts sharpening their teeth are asleep
product gods chant the liturgy of marketing
all is dying
but they keep mating, eating happily
and between two pleasures
every minute they destroy three other minutes
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