In the Catacombs

There is no God. Hey ho, hey ho.
Brilliant dawns over and over.
The living create cacophony,
build and war, build and war.

Farm for food, monofields of doubt and drought.
The occasional tornado tears
the baby from the mother.

Seasons rally. Snow bouquets
slicken sidewalks, followed by flowers
we pick, dying
to please us. Hey ho.

The tarmac continues its acrid march
past living rooms lighted by flat screens
with painted, prosthetic, blown apart skulls,
crime scenes, followed by dance and song,
contests and contestants. Hey ho, hey ho.

Death takes your neighbor.
And you go on.

Hey ho. The tombstones prate
of the land beyond. Paris is built
on bones. You can see them,
millions of femurs stacked, ends out,
broken by lines of eyeless, eyed skulls.