Draft done, world beckons
I find government shut dowi
By the supidocracy
Digitus Impudicus for all citizens
From all pols on the pall.
I open my ears once again
To radio: “All Muslims is not up to something”
To Eavesdropping: “I don’t have a problem with that:
Twenty nine kids, can you imagine?”
To Sight: A sign by the road, “Yes you can know for sure that you are going to Heaven.”
Veritas as a cowflops hung in a catflap
Swinging back and/or forth
Pushed by wind and whim
Total flex as total solid,
Mud mélange, if one fly ruins the soup
What’s it take to scupper the flavor of truth?
We are ordered to swallow
The media algorithm for pantophobia,
24-hour noise (not news);
Fear all, all y’all.
Our lives led by ladies and gents of the Six Outs:
Without Hearts. Without Thought.
Without Empathy. Without Light
Without a Clue,
And Without a word for We or Us.
All in terms of them.
Inuit say reality is that thing turned towards us
What then of leaders who show only their rumps?
Words of lies call ti-pi, rotten meat
I know a fella attends funerals of strangers
Keeps albums of photos of corpses in coffins.
The collection at 50 and mounting.
Hear Ye: Aged Ghoti billed as fresh still reeks.
Williwaws of the black flux
All of House Suits chant,
But then, we always are.
Borrowed line: Betwixt one dip of the pen
And the next, time passes.
Histrionics ain’t the same as historiography.