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Disposable heroes The modern virus and the remorseless eye of the camera have become the dancers and the stage of the mad theatre that hides behind our fears. Did I say theatres? I meant the Potter’s Field’s secret winters where serial numbers instead of head stones fall like silent snow and comes with the sensation of shock treatment to the genitals. And the dancers? They still dry hump all their steps With high heel shoes which sharpen all their skills, in losing well, to a fine point, more lethal than the love of the holy and rotting corpse. At the end of a chain He (the holy corpse) comes to us in the sick mornings at the price of curdled flesh which shrinks back from the doctor’s prick meant to keep you straight but only leads back to panic attacks that comes with the thought of wasted time or of a fool’s dance that robs us of romance. Now the only thing left is television and pills Your gas stove The taste of the third rail Or taking a swan dive from the GW Into the Hudson. Its up to you What face of escape you will wear To the party. But it beats a life sentence of boredom Or the frantic phone call By a friend Who hasn’t kept it straight Since the days he when wore long hair But now cracks At the thought of the landlord’s mercenaries From some far-off land And dances in roach skin suits and laughs With a dull killer’s sneer.