The zombies got faster as the money supply expanded.
They were adjustable-rate zombies. They had blogs.
They had no income, no job or assets, but they were not
NINJAs and there was a terrible howling
From our wellness centers. “I will become an Impossibilist
Or a Jacobin,” thought Tatterdemalion.
“With my nano-avatar, I will sabotage the angel factory
On the head of a pin.” But then the police hosed down
The protesters with washed-out versions of places to be seen
And tomb-ornamental art-rock. We had gone
And got ourselves borne up by the tailings of a dying
Class: mission accomplished. It was like a genre
Like no other genre but still not itself, or “Pitchfork
Uncanny,” the kids loved it, the police loved it, it was morning
In Exarchy, the morning of the epic without any heroes,
The morning where they drop the cash from helicopters.
You know: night. There’s nothing that can stop this now
Except possibly for a DFA remix of “Too Big To Fail”
Enjoining the turntables to get up and dance, work it
While the professionals stand around affecting auto-managerial poses
Or tapping the buttons of things, lining up the organic
Composition of capital with the convolved
Declensions of the summer ice pack,
Track on track laid down until all you’re hearing
Is how badly your speakers suck, flooded out
Like the quantitative easing that promised so little
But so completely. I honestly can’t see
How the Zoroastrians are going to vanquish Mithraism
This time especially when everybody’s slogan
Turns out to be some version of Emancipation Of the Sun
If Google Translate is to be believed. Listen they were jerks
But this is the future of the Futurists and we’re just
Living in it—like the Green Zone of a mildly circuitous becoming
Where no childhood is left behind, no improvised
Repressive device demobbed. Those demotions
Were emotional: the disassembled docks on container ships
Pulling in the ladder of the long century behind them.
Bitch, that’s not your carbon footprint, that’s Fallujah.
The rest is graduate school, dirty nerves, “A”-7
Lighted by white phosphorus. Go, Dog, Go!
At the mortgage-backed securities desk, little dried-out
chunks of New Orleans held in an emulsion of debt.
Flush to the screen, the depths, they fly like paper
Of the known unknowns. I am trying to tell you I love you,
Straits of Malacca, Niger River Delta, wherever it turns out
You can repaint the gunboats from Apocalypse Now
And say it a different way, a recent theory of history
Rummaging around in the vinyl collections for new
Evasions: the first time as travesty, the second time as force.
Welcome to the Palindrome. In other words, goodbye.
I’m tired of standing on my head, kicking my blasted legs
Around the sky, the masses, the multitudinous things that look
Away from us, their attention drawn to the alien
Sound made by the combination of thinking and working,
A kind of thwocking that comes with global-local
THC mojitos and crushed ice. I just want to write
Love letters and anti-capitalist futures contracts
From the deck of an oiltanker hijacked by Somali pirates
Who have some use for the GPS device implanted
In my thyroid. You just sit there and wait for the money
To roll in. You stare out at the bounding main — remember
The bounding main? Such are the fantasies of a boy
From the core where we make the movies about the core
And the periphery changing places every few minutes,
The movies with the dances at the end intercut
With the credit, the movies with the dances, the dances with
The songs cut with credit, cut that shit up one more time.