You are released.
The Care Department
has engulfed the streets.
The windows
are always crowded with lookers on.
Through the storm, the lighthouse knows my fate
and the knowledge of former alarm sanctified
for an inherited headstone.
What inheritance is there for me? I want nothing
of this currency! It's all fiat, insisting on its majesty.
Propping up paranoia spectacles with partitioned minds,
the blubbery denizens who chose to hide,
in the cages that tell you you are free
or armed to the teeth
ready to get fucked by democracy.
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