Upon a hearth of twisted stone
Ribbons of fire entangled within
There speaks a voice indiscernible
Contained at the edges of the glow
Nestled fuzz set to licking flame<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There are lies here, the dreams of yore
The dreams of your parents, grand,
Their parents, unbelievable and great,
But to the wastrels of the embers
At the crest of the pit, are our children<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So enamored with their reflection
Narcissus would be envious of such
Folly to be had at the hands, laid
On the devices that promised wealth
Knowledge, vast and unrestrained<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Corrupted by the wealth of those afraid
To be lined against the wall of their
Entitled, notarized consequences, sat
Shat on the children of those come after
And for what? More indeterminate wealth?
More cock? More pleasure? More rape
Of the those that cannot stand or push?
Such losses have they carried, such horrors
They have endured, only to suffer at the wheel
Of a world that does not suffer the weak<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The weak always are, until they aren’t<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Those beasts tolerate the hypocrisy of a mirror
Reflecting the envisage of Lovecraftian horror
Dressed in the latest Prada and Gucci
This season is so last season, already
Nevermind the bodies, they shall pile nicely<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What of the disassociated of us?
What shall we say to them? Rise up
Against the systems to which you slave?
How would they feed on at the trough
Of loss and value capture among the masses<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No, those flames do not burn at the glass
They reside deep within all of us, ignored
We pity those who hope, for we know
We have seen their losses, a study, a narrative
That is distilled through money, filtered<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And yet, we hold out hope, that the world
Is salvageable, saved from the ignorant smart rich
And the less reliable rich smart ones that lord
Over us serfs, scrabbled in the hard packed earth
Fighting over seeds the terrible have deigned
To spread over our yellowed scrabble
Will we bounce back against these captors?
Can we find their pencil necks among the chains
Or will we throttle the babies first
And pray for absolution in the utter silence beyond?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
History is poetry, it turns like a good limerick<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That woman from Nantucket, whom
Gives good head with a bucket
Only to feed her kids, since the third job
Laid her off due to cost measures
The owner needed a third boat<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hoped once for a new world, without
The blood and death of revolution
But older now, to dwell on childhood dreams
Is to eat candy without the sugar
And now the wall awaits its rich blooms<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like a painter of abstraction, absurd
The billionaires will bleed gold
Line them up first, to set the highlights
Then the oldest wealth next,
They will black and red the rest<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Can we survive an empire fallen, asunder
It dies by degrees, small choices and folly
The seas rise, the coasts subsume, and the poor
Fight along themselves, never blaming the oligarchs
They sit on their ivory, isolated from the peasants
They argue over the next million they shall burn
And the limerick gains speed to its conclusion
The revolution simmers beneath our fires
It waits patiently, standing guard of the corpse
Of a country ready to eat itself in its discontent<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bloodless revolution is change without impact.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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