The art of war behind closed doors,
Bretton Woods, 1944.
To liberalize the flow of lies
and white noise information their contingency,
I believe to bleed us like economies.
We failed to realize this,
the devils internalized the occupation.
If I swallow something evil
stick your fingers down my throat.
I can't recall the faces of names,
but I manage to know where to place the blame.
Their vast array of weaponry,
deployment or diplomacy,
the trilateral pillars of international financial killers.
Their brutality, I concede,
tempered with cool efficiency
for sarin gas and shot gun blasts,
leave imprecise incisions
to dislocate the act from our actions.
The careful hands of death's technicians.
Pixilate the debate,
replicate our lives, a facsimile.
Such a horribly beautiful rendition.
Their alien tongue rolls off our lips
like bits of binary code.
We failed to recognize,
the devils digitized the conversation.
If I swallow something evil
stick your hands down my throat.
Shattered hearts and broken hands,
all part of the plan, all part of their plans.
