THE PROGRESS

 The progress is fatal, but fatal like a disease,
like a scourge with NGOs, like a sinister
disaster, electricity, artificial intelligence,
the wonderful projectiles, airplanes, submarines,
torpedoes and gases and viruses and the mass media –
from these then spurts consciousness,
the nameless evil, the city built out of embraced
jackals. Everyone sees her coming and going,
monumental, triumphant, carrying her
hot days upon the yellowed concave skull
with immaculate lice on the forehead, 
and they will stop on a stone, lost in the multitude –
what a leap imprinted in one's own shit.