Tears of dismay, stream in buckets of grief,
down, red-streaked cheeks
Society’s controllers have been debriefed,
as a population descends into chaos
Slavery abounds, among missile-torn ruins,
as the chains, never thought to be seen again,
return, out of the ominous ashes of war
Everything I do is always right
So when I speak or offer advice
Keep you mouth shut, be polite
The losers always hit a dry spell
But my word’s the holy gospel
The word perfection underserves me
No one on earth really deserves me
There’s one thing that I still don’t get
Why hasn’t my divinity caught on yet
Even if you prove I’m wrong
When your memory has gone
I’ll finally be vindicated
Just as I have indicted
ALWAYS RIGHT!
While you easily see my lies on video tapes
Some alternative facts provide quick escapes
With endless insults and distortions
I blow the trivial out of all proportion
You’ll never know what I own or owe
You can’t figure out which way to go
impeach, arrest or just surrender
Colliding with me’ll be your worst fender bender
What serves me best as we roll along
I’m always right, you’re always wrong!
I bless the United States of America.
Amen.
Attracted by sameness and difference
They love each other
He a big 6’3 with orange American skin and a hefty brown wallet
His first name a cartoon character, his last rhyming with funny things
His counterpart a short slight Russian whose name puckers your lips,
Blond, 5’7, a forehead full of KGB
The first a hothead, a fun guy braggadocio
A charismatic liar you either love or hate
The second one severe
A judo black-belt poverty child in love with prisons
Both bullies as children
Bullies as adults
Both experts in the art of manipulation
Both hate the news, hate journalists, despise protests
One a businessman, the other a lawyer
In their respective cities,
They contemplate each other.
The first inside a New York tower,
gold furniture fit for a king
The second inside St. Petersburg
The Venice of the North.
As little boys, they suffered
The Russian so poor it is written that
he chased rats with sticks
The American sent to military school
to fix the unfixable
Across the continents they embrace
Their political arms entwined
Both supported by anxious citizens who look past their flaws,
Hoping for economic security.
More at https://twitter.com/warkitty110.
They’re painting the housing estate on our street
scaffolding is up like match sticks waiting to burn
people call this area the Bronx – I don’t know why
About time they got around to this, my husband says as we pass by
I suspect it’ll be up for months to come.
The court decision came out today,
it don’t bode well for Mrs. May
hurry, run and get your washing in
‘cos it’s about to rain.
They’re painting the housing estate on our street,
grey scaffolding like the withered limbs of trees
diminishing in the Autumn breeze
they haven’t seen a drop of paint yet,
parched throats yawning at the heavy sky.
I hear they use bamboo on
the dizzying skyscapers in Hong Kong
they say that it’s much lighter
than iron, and just as strong.
Meanwhile, on our humble street,
The scaffolding still stands like sentries
across the rows of spartan serfs
blank-facing with Euclidean ease
my footsteps echo on the earth,
toys blowing like litter in the breeze.
My husband reminds me they elected the Nazis
and the peasantry wrought out the Ustaše
I always thought we had we had the rule of law to thank
for saving us from our worst excesses.
But maybe all this caustic window dressing
is headed for the winter’s bite
hate frozen-marching up its alleys,
hearths dwindling in the dead of night.
I fear the facade of the ugly idea
as much as the idea itself
or maybe it’s not the idea I fear
but the degraded collective consciousness.
We don’t want your money,
just your soul
on a silver platter
served to order
for our warm feast
while we spit out your raw famine.
We don’t want your respect,
just your energy and time,
just your mind
numbed
to the frequency
of propagandized pestilence.
We don’t want your love,
just your heart
bled dry
as every vein
withers in the Winter wind
while our chalice remains
ever full to the point of overflowing.
We don’t want your vote,
just your faith
that such a course of action
can actually influence
the order in which our puppets
dance to a song of chaos
upon the public stage.
We don’t want your salute,
just your obedience,
just your hands
kept where we can see them
while your feet continue marching
to the drumbeat of our wars.
We don’t want your laws,
just your land,
just your culture,
just your customs,
just your heritage,
just your traditions
snuffed out
beneath the global kingdom
collectivized
at our command.
More at http://17numa.wordpress.com.
She survived
on a “Children’s Transport”
to England.
But the memory of her mother’s
panicked attempt
to pull her
from the moving train
has never left her.
And the mother?
As the SS soldier
viciously shoved her
on a cattle car
bound – she was told –
to the “East,”
she remembered her own
anguished attempt to keep the child
and was grateful
that the daughter would survive.
Rolling into the classroom
on Monday morning
they ignore him
will not be silent
as he speaks
chat among themselves
about the weekend
this and that
cocooned in subcultures
he would not understand.
An anachronism
he cannot break through
to quell their energy
bend them to his will
force the curriculum
down their throats
teach them ‘respect’
nor can he corral them
down the narrow path
his life has taken.
He would beat them
if he could but
thwarted by laws
he would repeal
can only shout.
“Shut up! Listen!”
he bawls getting
momentary attention.
“Why?” one of them
simply responds.
He has no reply.