Turning is Inefficient

Our streamlined world,
made aerodynamic
by industrial burglar's hands,
an exposed skeleton,
on a celestial catwalk,
rows of houses encrust deep-sea trenches,
concealed by smog's timorous veil,
an erotic glimpse of a vacant throne;
the king traverses a field of dandelion clocks,
his royal gardens their last habitat,
in futility he crushes each,
propogating cursed seeds,
to meadows of
sown salt.