The Moon is a Disc of Despair
You despair of disparities.
A bipolar moon spotlights two halves of the room: the have-gots and the have-nots, you who are tangled in knots of blankets and debris in the nowhere plots of dementia-city.
You sleep in skyscraper shadows. From those towers of babble fake pharoahs spout blather about stock market crashes, while we worship fat cats and construct pyramids of crap.
All your Fridays are black. Our deep-discount junk is built on your back. We buy flat screens so you can live in cardboard mansions for free, a Best Buy on the sly. You live at the corner of Wal Mart and Wall Street, and yet you're the freak, begging for dollars while the suits holler epithets as they skulk by spilling bills from their pockets of ill-will.
Their ghettos are gated and their eyes sedated. Their myopia a claustrophobic utopia turned into your dirty dystopia.
A suicidal moon darkens the room, in its clarity of despair.