When Oblivion,
the newest drug
hit the metropolis,
our fair city,
Lust,
we all danced around our soda cans,
bubbling Euphoria.

Oh will they market it
how will they market it
Is it a concept—
like vodka, no taste, no odor?
Is it sensual—
can we melt into it?
Is it weight watchers' approved—
not that it matters, we can still sell it. . .

I am the man on the cross,
hanging from the pinnacles of the sky rises—
corporations corporations—sex—
I am International.

When Oblivion. . .
nothing matters—
it will only be bought if they liked the ad—
giant roadway signs
vomiting into the subconsciousness in black and white:
"You are already dead."
End of story—kaput.

Our fair city has never been the same.