Cigarette Machine Beauty

It's a prodigious vision which captures
notions; black in hue, and toned adjectives
stand in wild rows of cigarette machine
beauty, as cold as a wing on a cheek.
Cultural bullets slip past fear's soaked palms
while mechanical wisdom oils the throat,
all of the economic smiles wither
away while screens scratch idle minds across
humanity's technological bruise.

There are poems on the tips of swollen
tongues; wagging their verbal truffles like death,
or love's insanity, ripped from people.
Religious wars still cough through explosions;
blown into the halls of history's cries,
the future's a belly laugh long, stripped skin,
scattered along the remains of warm dreams.
Connected lives throw friendship winds under
God's sky at night, red and rosy, tortured.