The War Room
Some grey hurdle in your empire-
building poured an oaken drink
and asked you what’s the endgame,
peeking out to see rose death, spread shameless
‘midst the masses, boulder-swept,
alive with anguish. Feel the days press on,
your causes, cookie reasons,
fill with fortunes folded by
men no-percent alive.
You dopes
demand our castles, greasy chips
smear eb’ny heads on which would rain
your landing – Guess who’s strong. Guess who is
tempered, battle-evened error modes
of robed dictators, falsehood-seeking tenets
of demise, long-startled, dancing
over scrapped-together rinds
of valor.
Robed in beech dissent
like quibbles: do we spill blood best
from jugular or vena cava?
Millions distant, dead.
How do you like ‘em? Force inspires romance
never shallow, hoisted up
the pole. Fireworks like grape shells starring
every goal: this cycle brought
to you by bombs & stripes that started
from discussions, oaken drinks
in quiet chambers, warm and dry
from toes to anguish on your aura,
glory getting by.
A Capitalist Loves You
You’ll never be the best at this.
You’re lucky my elasticness
can fit your body through the fun side,
past the choke of wand’rers’ twist.
Visit where we worthy earn our keep -
how dare you turn to joy this place
where we bemoan our lack of sleep?
We paid our dues, thus more we lend -
the more deficient , more we make amends
for him and her and those who have not seen.
Our gyrating nightmare lets us try and play
a looming end of days
at every turnpost of the weak -
out to break your back and beak
pecking for crumbs and crusts.
And trust us, you can’t fuss.
You’ll always be in transit -
boring, dreadful bus.
But you don’t get it -
where’s your limit?
Don’t you have one? (Not that I’d
be seen as wanting one, ‘cos, upward.)
Little limits! Use them every day,
or what are you? A monster.
There’s no time to play.
Now let us buy the hottest toys
that we can’t pay for. Stay for
snacks and drinks.
sure, you can write down what you think.
There’s no way you will ever read back
through it
and see anything but stupid.
A Marketer Loves You
Elbow grease to help you? No,
I’d rather sell you soap
and say you’re dirty. Flirty semblances
of insecurity flare up
and bite you on the knee
while I’ve been holding out for props.
Deserving of the prize you got -
what logic? Take a shot.
If order, whereby not? If chaos,
whereby I, immune?
Who over-simplifies your tune
to fit more squarely to a brand?
What fleeting sands slide down
to signify how much you’re in demand?
So ever-draining – scoop more in,
‘cos I’ll be boring
out the hole.
I’ll hold you by the toe
where tigers come to roost.
The juice they’re licking from their chops
smacks of a thousand shops
like yours, all shuttered –
comity deferred
to fancy, fancier, absurd,
then insignificant.
What use we of your thing?
What deficiency will sting
this gamble of a person
- never been called that till now -
when fascists disavow him
of his time on acrid earth?
What is it worth?
Add comment