Crunch

The night is falling.
The Cashman is walking with quickening and more urgent
footsteps as he pulls his coat about him in the
furtive hope he can keep out the chilling touch of an
unexpected financial death,
In the distance he hears the guttaral dying fox-cry
of his current way of being.
So he strides once more purposefully that he
may drink, increasingly, from a glass filled
with a cheap wine for warming obliteration.
He shakes his head and curses his lack of pace
as the night creatures begin to gorge on the
insecurities of we haves,
who glance sideways towards the have-nots
and wish not to join them in their
obvious and threatening squalor.

Beneath and behind his winter scarf he mutters about today,
groans about tomorrow.  He allows himself
to look with disgust out from his lofty palace of TV morals
and unlasting over-consumption so that he
sneers at the rest; who are not like him.
His happiness is propped by the silky
taste of a delicate and ornate desert made from
other people’s money sweetened with a blackberry topping.
Oh, but these sugary things tricked him and he
completely missed the coming of a live-for-today blindness
that crept into our eyes whilst we all dozed, safely but unsecured,
amongst our credit-checked slumber lies.

But all things come to The Reaper.  The System
is starved and is biting back hard with a sickening
crunch on the hand that feeds it.
The elaborate glass houses of his markets were
always fragile and they’re shaking in the growing
winter storm of a new world order.  The mistral
wind that is blowing hard from the mid-west and
chilling the bones of the greedy and immoral who
had grown too fat and short-sighted to run away.

The rumble as it blows up from the bottom of the food chain
is flapping the emperor’s clothes and
tearing away at the flimsy skirts so that we can
all see a bloated belly which has dined too
long on the guts of the have-nots and snacked
on the flesh of the not-so-lucky.

Not so lucky for us all now.  Cashman knows.

We’ll never be the same, it’ll even out no
matter how hard he squeezes the last drops
of blood from the carcasses of his victims.
His staple diet is poisoned by inattention,
self-deceit, idiotic, reckless distrusting collusion
and a placing of greedy wealth before
collective social health.
For an age he turned his face away if he
thought we might stumble on our own spendthrift stupidity,
just so long as he increased his liquidity.
He killed all his cash cattle at the first
sign of danger and left himself nothing but
the desperate charity of a government running
scared from the wrath of a million beasts of
overburden.

The shock of the new is coming, and it’s
coming for the cashman, the shock of the new
is coming and for once: it’s his turn too.

Share on Facebook

Leave a Reply