This was in part inspired by John Wyndham's writings (he's responsible for such gems as 'Day of the Triffids' etc)...
The Death of the Dollar
They are shivering in the cold to the rhythmic quivering of begging bowls
Beckoning them to dance
For the death of the dollar.
In the eyes of the guys sellin' plastic flowers
The hours hang like laden plastic bags
They all stand
For the death of the dollar.
The seconds gush through gutters and down drains
Just like money,
They run away with the clay foundations of the empire
And even the playing field,
The sewage stinks like fiat currency
As it creeps up to their feet
Underneath the concrete
Of their great cities
London
The Vatican
Washington D.C
Washed into the sea.
Their symbols of liberty are holograms,
Their mantra is “Blessed be the Meek
For The Meek Rarely Rock This Vessel.”
And when this vessel runs aground
Smiting towns and cities
And all the pretty private property where they used to play as kids,
When the mighty obelisk penises
And sacred garden arches
Go, brick by brick,
Who’s Phoenix will rise from the ashes?
Will they finally understand the nature of their inheritance?
They are the Crown of Creation,
Grappling with starched collars
As if to free themselves
From the loop of a hangman’s noose.
On the Tube
They are cybernetic, sub-human and dressed to kill,
Stealing themselves
For the death of the dollar...
(c) Abby Oliveira 2011
