macroeconomy, or "Dialect, with War"

you could call them effete. a wondrously mobile fete fine-tuned in their machined flesh to carry the war to whatever foreign shore demands our invested (in)(at)tentions. heated unimaginable affections; caress of napalm; the lover's shrapnel claws curled deep. to sink into territories. so avariciously beloved as to constitute a kind of flesh. this is the macroeconomy. Dialect, with Guns. like any convers(at)ion consummated in synthetic corpses. in pristine houses they glisten, rotund & elegant, fingering their pork bellies, licentious caress of a child's Dis-tended belly, convex as an empty. mirror. flyblown in a nation so far. a way. as to mean no more than a name. a map. a single line in a double ledger.
the titan, tho effete, is first and foremost. a father. he has sons (only sons) from Fatback, TN, to Berkeley, CA, to some wattle and daub village (name unpronounceable, and thus (in)conceivable) in the United Arab Emirates, to Yale. the bloodson is most (or least) beloved (depending on yr opinion of Abraham re: Isaac): it is he who receives the curling caress of index. finger 'round trigger's bleak steel moon. (or in lieu of this, trust. fund.) it's the pat on the back that pushes a man forward. to tumble facefirst into trenches. to hump sandbags across the desert. it's the chip off the old uncarved block of the shoulder. daddy's plump little sausages fi(n)g(e)(u)r(e) fondly in the mess of your guts, son, little boy. little soldier. he loves ya. as god so loved. his only begotten son. go forth. bloom your strange gasbag fruit. dragon's teeth, tungsten-jacketed. lead. sow. multiply.