oxidation prefab

tell me truthful that
you don't wonder what
goes on behind these
monolith tenements,
these "moloch eyes"
(ginsy nuzzles in my
ear) and all i can
relate is the time
i watched a man dig
through the refuse bin
extracting tiny bits
of gold and consumed
with fear of robots
around him as are
we all, and i tell you
truthful that i watched
the mechanical locusts
descend on him, swarm
swell and that
all I saw left behind
was a hat. but what
kind of narrator am I?
ask the corner stones, they
know more secrets
they remember bodiced women
and crates and shanghaied
the prettiest of the boys
for the clubs over east side
i could tell you these numbers
mean lost in time but its
all the same - see how
sepia'd we've all become?