ordinary & smaller—lazily undulating, waves are fickle but today, along with the sun providing the balmy film golden age hazy stage, are the last of the old guard to retreat—bow in defeat leaving the now jagged boulders with the wet salty darkening sheen rigor mortis'd titans to sink—once blobbish skin bags of jell-o flesh left boneless & for dead by a marauding highway robbery horde of cannibals, with a French boujie michelin refined palette, only desiring the bone marrow—celebrity making celebrity, spoiled to neoliberal shallow snobbish by money making money, pickled by untold tsunamis of liquid gold shielded and insured by post-modern templars armed to the teeth with stock buybacks, tax havens, insider information, money making money, Louis Vuitton branded insulating empty cherubs from the mean streets—the identity forging concrete jungle, of which they've been removed, six degrees of separation ending with a bleached ivory clad wet nurse who once was their godhead, then for a time mistakenly called mom, now a discarded lump of rubbish, at the bottom of a landfill mountain range undergoing ultra-high-pressure metamorphism she counts sheep for them under command, in hopes they'll sleep—they don't, so she's browbeat because they are made to use more advanced instagram filters, life imitating art, as they rot into Dorian Gray, more & more, everyday—sluggish Titans sinking into the beach sand a stylized Hollywoodland art deco crisp lines so puffed up they're pushing out—redrawing, re-zoning the old money privileged elites Belair county club property
divides—
they'll never see—the opaque skin zip lock boiling-in-a-bag microwaved past due—milky white sauce, closed loop steam swelling their plastic surgeried plastic skin past thin water retention PSI gauge needle buried red—push yourself to stare—slow your breathing, it'll all be over soon—I swear, look past the hair & see the purple deflated blood veins jiggling in gelatinous gelatin mimicking it's lord as patronage—the vassal's last fealty owed to the Duke for the fief it lived it's entire life on, the same plot of worked farm pasture it's currently blobbing in, now liquified still mimicking the scene—the scene from last week at the Belair C.C. golf course, presidential ball room, club house, & pool complex where our sinking Titan saw his own demise, all at once felt his internal muscular structure, his entire fleet of muscle tissue walling collectively exhaled, giving way, letting go like a brain dead coma patient they were unresponsive—without pirates there's no mutiny, now, our sinking Titan, once a feudal lord, a Duke has lost his edge—an emasculated eunuch, a former man now a disbanded group of senses trapped in a swollen hypertensive motel petri dish billboard-sized neon sign advertising vacancy—an overcooked knockwurst sausage gelatin gelatinous jiggling barely floating on his slow leak YMCA blue floaty in mint green water over-chlorinated to the point it would burn your lungs, redden your eyes, but your skin, it's pinking clouds the wet bread cellophane skin—latter that afternoon I became just another rat jumping off a sinking ship.