Posts Tagged ‘Political’

A friend once told me of a man,
A deceptive corruption of a person,
A viper,
His skin scaly as sin,
Fangs dripping from previous kills,
Gripping to the world by constriction,

He climbs a ladder of life,
To personal happiness and glory,
At the expense of others,
Each rung is another souls verve,
Innocent obstacles,
Squashing them underfoot,

Whispering lies in one ear,
Hissing threats to another,
Ravaging penniless mice,
Grounding birds of others dreams,
Each step is a test of his malevolence,
And he continues to excel himself,

To his reptilian mind,
Elitism is a virtue,
People are simply tools of advancement,
Existence is a ladder,
A cutthroat meritocracy,
And so he keeps climbing,

On and on.

From these shores,
To many others,
Flag after flag,
Of all stripes,
Strawmen are erected,

Fallacies are spawned,
Ideas are distorted,
And eviscerated,
To sate a tribal idealism,
Debates become bloodbaths,
Scholars lose themselves,
And become cut-throats,
With fallacious dirks,

Being right is the only victory,
Even as sense must be sacrificed,
Herbal teas spilled,
The diplomatic table is in flames,
Chessboards and statistics,
Logic has become smoke,
The strawman still stands.

You apathetic dragons,
In your boardroom hoards,
Remember us?
We little people,
The public,
The ever-hungry,

We were the ones,
You trod into the muck,
We were the ones,
You left out in the cold,
We were the ones,
You used in your schemes,

Our chump change wasn’t enough,
You had to take our homes,
And the skins off our backs,
But we’re only animals,
And when we feel cornered,
We’ll even hunt dragons,

When the resources expire,
And the fires burn low,
We’ll climb your piles of gold,
In our dingy rags,
On shattered limbs,
Mad hunger saliva,

You so-called elites,
You’re going down too,
Even your power won’t save you,
From the knives of the poor,
It’s the end for you too,
We’ll eat the rich.

Your god is dead,
Their god is dead,
All of your pantheons have perished,
Olympus is vacant,
I swear to you,
I’ve seen their graves,
Desecrated by roads and homes,
Covered in skyscrapers,
Gasping on industrys fumes,
Ravaged by hordes of heretics,
In their cafes and clubs,
Their boutiques and parks,
The pollution of mortals,
Pray all you like,
Let the words be sand in your throats,
Your prayers won’t be heeded,
Your saviours thrones lie empty,
I’ve seen their graves.

This world is a table,
Within an asylum,
A splendorous banquet,
Graces its gingham cloth,
But most reside on the floor,

The tablecloth is stained in blood and oil,
The price of food,
The price of decadence,
It’s laden with edible blood diamonds,
Out of reach of us serfs,

But the elite pigs,
In their suits,
And cruel heels,
Feast up above us,
Conducting their debates and wars,

A crumb falls down sometimes,
A divine ambrosia,
And we swarm to it like ants,
For a chance at greatness,
Even as it’s covered in dirt and hair,

Our gluttons in power preach,
We’re all in this together,
Or so they say,
Yet I see no ladder,
Enabling us all to see the tablecloth,

This world is a table,
Within an asylum,
And we need only chew the legs.

During this time of crisis,
As the world chokes,
In bile and fluids,
The beancounters are hard at work,
Estimating the cost to the land,
Not in life of course,
But that of greed,

Prosperity before people,
Finances over family,
Cash over compassion,
Rat hearts hollowed out decades ago,
They’re sweating bullets,
Productivity could be down,
As the plague drives on,

Numbers do indeed go down,
Yet only the ones with dollar signs,
Are heeded,
The actuaries titter to each other,
Rodent-like and mechanical,
Life is an acceptable loss,
The spreadsheets add up,

The world wheezes,
And once all of the cheques have bounced,
The question becomes,
Whom do we eat first?

A young boy was born,
Rosy-cheeked innocence,

A young boy was brought home,
By beaming suburban parents,

A young boy began to play,
Mud and toy soldiers,

A young boy became a student,
Shy and introverted,

A young boy was bullied,
Beaten to tears,

A young boy continued to play,
Dark rooms and razor blades,

A young boy cried for help,
No help came,

A young boy began to crack,
His innocence beginning to fade,

A decision was made,

A young boy became an active shooter,
Clad in trenchcoat,

No more tears,

A young boy was shot dead,
By a good guy with a gun,

He was just a young boy.

The Land of the Free quakes,
Disaster looms above,
Or so it’s said,
Many believe it to be so,

Neighbours look sideways at one another,
Rights become targets,
For the firing squad that is corruption,
Few tears are shed,
Even fewer protests are uttered,

Division and hatred,
These weapons of mass destruction,
Maybe orchestrated by a court of white,
Filled with a rogues gallery,
In business suits and colourful badges,

Led by something of a jester,
With delusions of grandeur,
Possessing a nationalist baton,
And a dangerous red button,
Poking the bear and dragon,

The time has come,
A red mushroom cloud erupts,
In the shape of a pachyderm,
The Land of the Free is no more,
The world is ending.