just burnt biscuits stuck on the stove

its so bitter now, on this unmoving mass
as opiate fragments pick thru the rubble,
so desolate, so depressing, so F**KING silent
as the sons of David slay the nights intensity

how dare you, do you assume our capriciousness
with your iron fists pounding jam tins in factories
orders to make crap to feed the warmongers purse,
hiding, deeply disturbed in your stone corridors

great flaming phalluses screaming tonight
smelling of the shit from the politicians lies
as the ice caps dissolve explosively, viciously
melting just as burnt biscuits stuck on the stove!

and now the winter winds blow cold upon the land


greg

This is great, Cousin; just what's wanted. Swimming in absurdity as we are, especially in Bush's Fortress Amerika, I enjoy a F**KING good poem exactly such as this for such a time as this.

We might as well live on, swim on, write on, and, with the help of art, endure. Perhaps we can outlive the fascist world cabal? In any case, we can hope... or, at least, find as much fun and meaning as we can, picking through the ruins of the world.

Respect and solidarity, and cousinly love always,

Cousin +Stevie

But soon a new spring will come...with new warmth and comfort.

Thanks for the positive spin on this one Dust. I think Greg needs a hug after that write? LOL! Easy Steven, we still live in a beautiful country that one administration couldn't possible screw up. Even if you think they could, we still get to vote every four years! Exercise your right and never lose your voice.