LABOR VOID

Monkey beast
at your altar of money,
when the orpheus battle cruiser arrives
will you be blind
to its white lyre-engine bliss?

Is the enigma fruit
so sweet on your lips
as your flesh is blown off
by the lyre borne bliss lasers
of the orpheusians
that you do not see
that reality
is optics
on a titanic scale?

Monkey beast,
at your altar of money,
your head
is the fruit
of a long black wilderness,
the blindness of its omen,
its scorn, and promise.