A poem about rich men in suits who may have quietly doomed us all.

The Business


Their slogans parade rooms
Sealed within a rotting life, aloof 
Where echoes grail an ageless loss,
Drolling old regrets in blood and ash. 

Because of them our air will grit
A skittering world to strangers
As fear cancers choice,
Economies spool nerves open, 
Animals bay in seizure,
Crows ply currents of air, 
Forests bind to coming rusts,
Days sheer with phobic cracks, 
Time defrauds in growing wilts

Where forever stands hidden, 
Broken concrete in hands
Seeding disease, money over love, 
Bones with leathered rims
Salt earth in peristalsis, tout
Scrambling lines of pimps, grift
In draining, grout the hills,
Tile the sickly clay

Angled into droughted winds,
Fists becoming palms, too late, 
To embrace under a sun that
Will hide the world with burning, 

Parches of sand with tongues of
Roulette weather drowning its way back,
Dreaming dead with greed that bore them.


Cormac Culkeen 2021

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