Politicula
cold and crumbling circles take us
breathed by broods of basilisks make us
blinding minds to yawning flaws, metal shards
the dead man's cards
basilisk bards
despair
The words of prophets nourish
the curds of profits flourish
political genome linked
watch the planet decay, we blinked
the obvious is there
oppressive games pick their
players like FBI or MI6, KGB, or CIA
corporatic incomes pay
rise rise rise, a bully's knuckle
dense weight at top, the clay legs buckle
Job creators for Ivy league
connected families intrigue
the ironic cyclonic lies
are trapped within the eyes
myopic view of future, next quarter
Socialism, Communism, Marxism
demonized to a wobbly schism
as they gulp their bowls
of soylent green and acme holes
well oiled machines and hunchbacked voles
belief in a creator, a king coming back
gripped tightly by power lest there be attack
using faith as a voting, political agenda
and fool the workers with this referenda
"what matters a wage slave life
or a sickly world, our payment rife
with silver mansions on streets of golden mortar"
as one insignificant planet heaved
from the most virulent parasites yet recieved:
humankind
Comments
Hi Beau!
Sure I think a world glamoured by shiny rocks and fool's gold instead of things that heal us, bring us together and carry meaning that can't be reflected in a spreadsheet or quarterly budget is a fools errand. I thank you Beau, for the kind words about that word play, it wrote itself. This sat around the site for a couple weeks without a hit, so I went back in and fine-tuned a lot of the first bits. The irony that our vision of success is the exact thing that destroys what sustains us: It's a Monty Python sketch only not so funny. What's the answer, scream until my throat tastes of blood and my body is falling beneath me? Perhaps. Thanks for reading my work.
Ron
BlueDemon77