Manifest Density
The dulcet covers of culture
cradle unclean cravings
born of worry wind.
The less are jests
to the money whores,
our east to their never met west.
Pipes are getting dirty,
gaslights running low,
no good getting go.
Gotta skim the scum,
prune the plant,
trim the tree.
Sloppy seconds skewer clock,
ticks poison in the talk
of unscratched social itch.
Upperclass tumors
with their cancers of cops
have got to stop.
Or else we lop em off.
– Smith, 3.30.2015
