of thee i sing (and sigh),
commencing with
the pallid press
enabling the cabling
of stability's stable,
blazing the stale,
self-hailing trail
of a flailing,
failing state;
scaling unexplored,
uninformed depths
of unbridled,
unconscionable denial;
aligning the
reassigned citizenry
of competitive paupers,
dutifully consuming
an incorporated stand
of rebranded homeland;
enforcing the "interests"
of the conscienceless hoarders,
sowing scarred sores
on pored over scores
of presumptive,
misappropriated borders.
i sing to an
intangible,
fabled piece
of our mother's
ineffable skin
where need-seeded,
greed-kneaded,
creed-weeded tenants
have been brainwashed
for staggered generations
to imagine
they're the ones
the demented beacon
shines on;
where pigmented "others"
are routinely deported,
disenfranchised,
or "lawfully" disposed of
(along with all those
broken headlights,
thus eluding any
untoward illumination,
shattering the slanted
vision of justice).
i sigh for the sting
of freedom's unfounded ring
saddled by the
strangely embedded,
addling media
and the death-rattling prattle
of lavishly reimbursed
paddle-less politicians;
ceaselessly stalked
by that lucre-soaked
stroke of stoking genius
that swallowed We the People
in a Hollywood laundered,
good-guy-bad-guy,
two-dimensional mentality;
that dauntless paucity
uncentering dissention,
proscribing the limits
of unencumbered thought
as surely as a
pair of horns
silences rebellion
in an angry god's
unquestioned dominion;
the bipolar duopoly
of hypo-mock'ocracy,
siphoning revolution
into quadrennial extravaganzas
where hundreds of millions
of opinions, persons,
and undisclosed dollars
are squeezed in the
freely attested
modern-day miracle
of the passive ascension
of two glossy notches
sighted by the faithful
on the pre-approved menus
of the right and righter flanks
of stone-bleeding amnesiacs
and brokered, broken asses.
i sigh for the promise
that might have discovered
America
where the Commons was doomed
by handing its airwaves
to the plundering pirates,
impaled on profit's rails,
and pegged to the
pilloried posts
of a privileged
and propertied propaganda;
where garlanded fences
tell war criminals' tales,
ubiquitously embellished
in the prideful swells
of welling myth,
plastered like trophies
on the filmed coffin lids
of a myopic synopsis,
glazing over gapes
in its gasping lapses of history.
i sing to awaken
a lingering,
unrealized dream
doomed by its epic failure
to recognise itself,
rooted in a racist displacing
of the sacred sense
of shared humanity,
masking a cloaked insecurity
and all those forgotten,
severed connections
that stem from incessant,
unrepentant intervention
proceeding from the donning
of the binding and blinding
invention of whiteness;
condemned by its betters,
and their trickle-up theory
of selfish and soulless
one-upmanship
to blithely,
heedlessly,
relentlessly manifest
the exceptionally ingested destiny
of projected,
misdirected
protection.
or put another way...
ashes to ashes;
depleted uranium
is rusting the dust;
while bleached, talking models
instill their daily dribble,
piping the prescribed
contrived serenade,
paraded for patriots
following a bouncing bubble
independence is crushed
in the serial,
heartbroken litany
of defenseless, other-coloured,
unprofiting nations
that are buried in terror's
emancipated rubble.
like some hellish plague
of brutal high-tech locusts
the rogue "superpower",
in the vaunted strides
and suicidal tides
of its isolating state
will "protect itself"
until it finally turns out
there's no unflattened,
unimpounded earth
left in the hounded mounds
of scattered rubble
to trouble its
protracted
televised dearth
at all.
** ***** ** **** ** **** ** ***** **
- Evan Hawthorn, the 24th of July, 2017
