A Hitchcock film is being narrated
inside an automated sex machine
doubled as an overregulated paper press
on the top of an old Jazz Era oak desk;
what ruins a generation can make.
Moviegoers watch Greek goddesses
roam the district of lights
hoping Caesar opens his gate
wielding a king’s sword once stuck in stone.
Battles in the jungle trenches leave dead
many men who fought to have
their names heard, otherwise erased.
Hanging rosaries caress the priest’s hand
of a mighty Catholic cathedral
wrapped inside of an Egyptian pyramid.
Doctrines are organized the same today
in the great American Plains.
Aztec ruins paint a blank canvass
in a medium of internal impressions;
likewise searching were the imperialists
who came to enforce a new land.
The ruins of man are romantically studied
only long after the massacre;
the rest thought not to be at all—
even when witches and werewolves
walk the streets cloaked in epaulets
where there are no clean hands.