En mass, our working classes,
misemployed, unemployed,
disabled, and abused,
pressed far beyond their limits,
have risen up,
hissing hate
that won’t abate.
See them. See them,
marching now,
marching strong.
And up ahead, you see what for,
encircled now
the self-anointed
self-celebrated
roundly hated
soon castrated.
A howl sounds out,
a wounded raging HOWL.
STAY BACK, STAY BACK.
You will not
drag us down.
Our riches prove:
We are the better half.
DIE now, DIE all of you,
of poverty, delusion,
cluelessness, and plague.
Your genes, your breath,
your touch
WILL NOT pollute
the purity of our
resplendent ranks.
OUR MAJESTY WILL PREVAIL.
DIE you seething vermin. DIE.
The lower classes smirk.
By numbers,
they have
the upper hand.
Squeezed now to icy fear,
the unveiled elite recoil
and flee to higher ground,
far up into the clouds,
where riches have no worth,
with food and water scarce.
Ah, anointed ones, what shall do now?
Pretend Valhalla’s Odin
will welcome and preserve?
Invite you join his
fabled tables?
Imbibe his royal rum?
Upon cynical reflection,
undoubtedly true.
But, though lost you now,
your bitter essences
still survive.
No well earned end
for them.
Unrecognized and un-renounced,
your dark desires
smolder on
deep within
these poorly masses
bent on jubilee.
Portent, the cycle will repeat.
Our vision,
far too short.
Our sense of justice,
untransformed.
Inevitably, some few will
take up jeweled adornments
abandoned on the ground,
marvel at the workmanship,
and feel a sense of
providential fortune
shining down upon.
Proclaim, they will,
anointment has been cast
from gods whose ghosts
reside up in the clouds.
And, with no more wisdom
than those that came before
will direct that
all around
bow down
and kiss
their hands.
Sad, so sad, the
repeating story,
ever ever told.
|
Tuesday, October 20th, 2015
Cope
CO
USA
|
