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Bread and Circuits
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Bretton Woods
The art of war behind closed doors,
Bretton Woods, 1944.
To liberalize the flow of lies
and white noise information their contingency,
I believe to bleed us like economies.
We failed to realize this,
the devils internalized the occupation.
If I swallow something evil
stick your fingers down my throat.
I can't recall the faces of names,
but I manage to know where to place the blame.
Their vast array of weaponry,
deployment or diplomacy,
the trilateral pillars of international financial killers.
Their brutality, I concede,
tempered with cool efficiency
for sarin gas and shot gun blasts,
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leave imprecise incisions
to dislocate the act from our actions.
The careful hands of death's technicians.
Pixilate the debate,
replicate our lives, a facsimile.
Such a horribly beautiful rendition.
Their alien tongue rolls off our lips
like bits of binary code.
We failed to recognize,
the devils digitized the conversation.
If I swallow something evil
stick your hands down my throat.
Shattered hearts and broken hands,
all part of the plan, all part of their plans.
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