Only the skull as the video game ends the wall…

By Jason Maxwell
cleaner sweeping moneybags under carpet

By Jason Maxwell


Ubiquitous outside the video game

you can smell the fear the bankers make

       of their victims in every business deal,

parliament vote or socially conscious victory,

                     Ubiquitous outside the video game

you can smell the dinner exhaust

from those that live on the other side of the wall,

those that leave the dinner table for a VR business meeting,

leave a violent wall sized TV screen for their children while

their nannies are left to Facebook,

  while the children fill their mouths

with brown-coal and uranium dust

                     that looks like chicken,

              flavoured with alittle MSG cooked

in the heroin houses of Monsanto,

   Ubiquitous outside the video game

you can smell the real zombie machine

as it whifts its cologne in

sharp meaningless time down Swanson street,

   motivation to be just like that magazine,

to be just like that android

       Andrew Bolt-in-the-brain

With the power to fool reality itself

              into giving him a TV show,

repeating Doubts

that taking back a degree or two

                     of temperature change

   is even necessary, let alone

possible past humanities

supposedly insignificant capacity to adapt

  through reasons of the share market

 otherwise known as

 manipulated profit margin,

       in peripheries “competition”,

 where the body count

of our children’s children has a trading name

              in the next cock-fight trapped century,

  where the mafia are screaming glee this name

as they win and give the reserve bank mate

of the fastest growing economy

       in the world an 8 billion dollar tip

                     for placing his party in charge

while they have already removed

       four billion dollars from foreign aid,

              straight after the election,

straight from the dinner table

       of the living refugee skeleton,

who can only sigh as his forth brother

       falls dead in his own vitamin-less piss,

and as they keep dying

     outside this video game,

I have to tell myself,

    At least I know the game will end…

At least I know the fume of human rights decay

                     will rise from their piles of cash,

                eventually engulfing them,

 eating poisonous worm holes

                            into their horror,

  and while their human wrong skull

gleams in its smile…